


I Wanna Ruin Our Friendship

by LWTIS



Category: South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Always a Different Sex, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Alternate Universe - High School, Anxiety, Coming Out, F/F, Fem!Tweek, First Dates, Friends to Lovers, Gender or Sex Swap, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Useless Lesbians, blissful co-raising of the most spoilt guinea pig in all of colorado, fem!craig, i love how that's a tag, seduction via shakespeare
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-03
Updated: 2018-06-03
Packaged: 2019-05-17 11:43:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14831637
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LWTIS/pseuds/LWTIS
Summary: Tweek has 99 problems, and beautiful girls who are prepared to pick fights to defend their guinea pig’s honour are the cause of about 85 of them.Aka the epic romance of useless lesbians Tweek and Craig.





	I Wanna Ruin Our Friendship

“So, I hear you’ve been talking shit about my guinea pig.”

“What?!”

“Basketball field. Ten minutes. I’ll kick your ass.”

\---

Tweek had never been in a fight before.

She had been on shift during every Black Friday rush, as well as the afternoon when two rising Yelp critics got into a food fight right before closing time. She had a little more experience with administering sharp elbow jabs then usually deemed necessary. Like every responsible girl plagued with paranoia, she had poured over unnecessarily detailed guides on self defence, and had practised on a few unfortunate targets.  
But this – standing at the edge of the basketball court, with a crowd at her back, at her side, caging her in, practically herding her towards a waiting opponent –  
This is new.  

When Marsh and Broflovski had approached her at lunchtime to warn her about Craig Tucker having it out for her, she was confused. Freaked out, naturally - but confused. She couldn’t think of a single reason why she would have angered the other. (Her mind was all-too happy to provide a multitude of reasons why someone - anyone -  would have it out for her. Hell, it was very possible Craig was the sort of person who didn’t _need_ a reason to want to fight someone.)  
She knew of Tucker - it was hard not to know of the girl who flipped off the principal. ‘Craig’ was her middle name, but it might as well have been her first. Whatever came before was on the school register, but was lost to ancient role calls made by long forgotten primary teachers. This, coupled with a serious case of resting-serial-killer-face, had made her a semi-permanent fixture in the school gossip mill.

Tweek knows she’s shaking, twitching visible as she shifts her weight from one foot to another, eyes no doubt betraying her terror.  
Still, she clenches her hands into fists, tongue running over gritted teeth as she squares her shoulders. Her gaze finds Craig’s as the other girl steps forward, pose mirroring Tweek’s.   
She wasn’t going to back down now. Sharp scowl and killer eyebrows aside, Craig Tucker bled like everyone else if you smacked her on the lip.

The crowd behind them roars. A shrill voice demands that they get on with it. Craig takes another a step forward - before turning to their audience, expression twisted into a frown.

“…. what do we do?”

Loud disbelief ripples through the students. Craig’s expression doesn't waver, eyebrows drawn tight with both confusion and annoyance.  

“....what do you mean, ‘what do we do?’” Cartman calls out, beady eyes narrowed. Craig just shrugs, like they're debating the ever popular topic of ninjas versus pirates.

“I’ve never been in a fight before.”

“Me neither!” Tweek is quick to add, wincing at how shrill her voice sounds.

“Just - smack each other about!”

Their eyes meet again. Tweek can already see Craig's interest fading, all tension gone from her frame. Like she just cannot be bothered anymore. For a second, the blonde is torn between fierce relief and the impulse to knock all her teeth out. The crowd seems to have the same idea, people already drifting, previous excitement dissolving into disappointed murmuring.

Cartman looks furious.

“Come _on_ , you pussies, I have twenty dollars riding on this!”

Tweek slowly blinks, realisation settling in her stomach like a stone. She lowers her hands. Takes a step backwards.  
And then, with an ear-shattering screech, she launches herself straight at Cartman.

\---

A trip to the principal's office later, Tweek is sitting on a bench near Stark’s pond, nursing bruises knuckles and a whole new set of frustrations.

It had been a ruse, because _of course_ it was a fucking ruse – she doesn’t know why she expected anything coming from Marsh and Broflovski’s lot to be _anything_ _else_ but a fucking ruse.   
Like the time their passionate art preservation campaign ended with Tweek being called a sympathiser to infanticide). Or when a science experiment lead to a hospital breakout in the middle of the night (and much more semen than anyone could be comfortable with).  
She didn't even want to think about the Mongolians.  
  
All besides the point. The point is - she should have known, she should _have known better.  
_

She is so lost in her silent, miserable rage that she doesn’t notice the approaching footsteps. Or the accompanying body - until there's a finger poking her cheek.

“Hey.”

To Craig’s credit, her face barely twitches at Tweek’s responding screech and violent spasm of limbs.

“Ack! What do you want?!”

“Relax.” is her only response, taking a seat next to the other on the bench. She even has the gall to reach down and retrieve the bottle of water Tweek had flung in the air seconds ago. Unlike the blonde, she sports no injuries, navy clothes unrumpled, hair sleek beneath the usual navy hat. Her expression is a hybrid between bored supermodel and lurking murderer - clearly above being upset over the earlier fiasco.

Tweek has the sudden urge to shove her into the lake.

“What do you want?” she repeats, reaching to snatch the bottle back. “Changed your mind?”

A single eyebrow is raised before Craig shakes her head.

“Did Cartman put you up to this?”

“....N-no. It was Marsh and Broflovski. They said you - ngh - had it out for me.” she huffs, fingers twitching with the urge to grab at her hair. “I never wanted to fight you in the first place!”

“Yeah, I figured.”

Red flashes through her vision, suddenly ready to jump to her feet at a moment's notice and let her have it too - if she figured, if she was so _damned smart_ , then why the fuck was she so ready to fight Tweek in the first place?! -  
And then her vision is obscured by an aluminium can.  
A few seconds of awkward silence ensue before the taller girl clears her throat.

“Watching you punch Cartman in the face was the greatest thing I've ever seen.” she finally offers, corner of her lip twitching at the admittance. “We good?”

Tweek can't tell if that was Craig's attempt at a smile, or if she was fighting down a sneeze. She sincerely hopes the other has the decency to turn her head to the side should she succumb to the urge.

“....what is this?” she asks, reaching to gingerly accept the offering.

“You like coffee, don’t you? You’re always chugging the stuff whenever I see you.”

“.....this is not coffee.” Tweek replies in a horrified whisper, staring at the can with trepidation one reserves for particularly slimy insects. She now recognises the over-designed sepia logo for the canned coffee brand they stock in the school vending machines. She hears the other scoff.

“Just because it costs less than ten dollars and wasn't blessed by Buddhist priests doesn't mean it's not coffee.”

“Calling _this_ \- nghh - coffee is like when you try and pass off four percent convenience store vinegar off as ‘wine’.” Tweek murmurs, unable to repress a shudder. She traces a thumb over the decal declaring the can contains a whole 2% coffee. _Incredible.  
_ She thinks she hears a snort before she hurries to meet Craig's gaze again, fingers gripping the can tightly.

“B-but, uh. Thank you. You didn't…”

_Have to do this. Actually punch me. Set me up._

Craig just hums in response, seemingly satisfied. The ensuing silence much less awkward. The blonde finds it oddly comforting.

“So…uh...” Tweek hesitates to break the tranquillity, but her curiosity wins over nerves in the end. “Just to be clear…they got you this mad just by saying I’ve been talking shit about your hamster?”

“Guinea pig.” Craig corrects her immediately, expression shifting to genuinely annoyed. Tweek resists the urge to ask what exactly the difference is – she has a feeling the ensuing reply would be extensive.

“Guinea pig then.”

“Yeah. I won't stand for that kind of slander.” Craig replies, completely serious. She shifts, and in the next moment, a phone is  shoved into Tweek’s face. She reels back just in time to avoid getting smacked in the nose - for the second time today. Infuriatingly, her glare is only met with a look of impatience.

“Well?”

“Ack! Well what?!”

“What do you think?”

Just about suppressing a groan, Tweek glances down at the screen again, reluctantly appraising photo. The guinea pig in question is surprisingly large and notably fluffy, with soft mahogany fur. His head is perked up, attention focused entirely on an unseen object off-camera. For reasons unknown, a tiny pirate hat (complete with a carefully embroidered skull and crossbones motif) is perched on top of his head.  
It’s painfully adorable.  
She doesn't realise she had made any sort of noise until she glances back up - and is greeted with a very smug expression.

“Well?” she repeats, voice ringing expectant despite its monotone drawl. Briefly, Tweek considers asking whether Craig had purchased the hat online, or had made it herself.

“He’s adorable.” She replies instead, a smile tugging at her lips as she leans closer to get a better look at the screen. Craig indulges her for another minute, flicking through the album to show off his pet – Stripe, full name Sir Stripington #4 – from a multitude of different angles, in a multitude of different hats.  
(One of them has a little bow on it. Tweek was going to tear her hair out.)   

“Isn’t he?” Craig hums as she locks her phone, tucking it away in her pocket with satisfied conviction. With a huff, she is on her feet, hands sliding into the pockets of her coat as she gives the blonde one last curt nod, expression already settled back to a familiar blank slate.

“See you round, Tweak.” 

\---

Things fall back into routine fairly quickly after that. People lose interest in Tweek as quickly as they took notice. Cartman loudly threatens to sue her for all she's worth, but her whiny threats are delivered from a safe distance. She thinks the way Broflovski looks at her has changed, but she doesn't bother to check. She's not that quick to forgive, and the despicable quartet - ever so unaware of how their actions affect others -  don't exactly make an effort to apologise.  
(McCormick did ambush her by her locker a few days later to press a packet of cookies into her hands with a conspiratorial wink, accompanied by a muffled word of gratitude. Or so she assumed. Damn that fucking hood.)

She's crossing through the cafeteria three days later when a familiar voice calls out to her.

“Oi.”

Her feet skid to a halt, juice cartons tipping over on the tray as she whirls around - finding herself at the scrutiny of four pairs of eyes from the nearest table. Her ex-nemesis-of-ten-minutes beckons her to come closer. The brunette next to her pumps a hand in the air excitedly.

“There she is! Woman of the hour!”

 _Donovan_ , her mind helpfully supplies. _And to her right, Valmer and Black._

Upon a request for a nice, socially acceptable verbal response, her brain refuses to comment further.

“Ack! Uh. H-hi?”

“They've been nagging me to invite you.” Craig offers in way of an explanation. She sighs as if it was the single source of all her misery. “Clyde's been obsessed with touching you.”

“Did she bleed?” Donovan cuts in, eyes shining at the prospect. Without breaking eye contact, she shoves her elbow into Craig's ribs in retaliation for her comment. “I was standing in the back, and everyone says different things - did you really break her nose? You have to tell - “

“What she is _trying to say_ \- “ Black interrupts, cutting her friends off with a sharp look before turning to Tweek. Her smile is impossibly dazzling. “Do you want to come sit with us? You seem cool.”

She is so wrong - so incredibly wrong that Tweek almost laughs out loud. She sucks in a breath instead and tries not to look too hysterical.

“I'm really not that interesting.” she mutters, eyes glancing to the side, checking for an easy escape, some excuse - were people staring already? Did the whispers begin anew? Was this a ruse, _again_ , some sort of delayed revenge tactic for what she said about the canned coffee? What if -

“That's fuh...fih...okay. I was going to do a test run o-of my new r-routine on these guys today.” Valmer pipes up, motioning to a neat little pile of flashcards next to her tray. “A-another ear is a-always we-welcome.”

For some reason, the statement doesn't strike any of them as odd. Craig’s attention is already back on her food. Black’s smile is still kind, patient. Donovan is practically sparkling.

Slowly, tentatively, she shuffles towards the table, setting her tray down on the empty spot.

\---

To her utmost surprise, she ends up genuinely liking everyone. To her shock, the feeling seems unanimously mutual.  
  
With Jimmy, Tweek expected a mild mannered, charming activist with a la Wendyl Testaburger. What she got instead was an _incredibly_ charming powerhouse who happily encouraged people to break both legs before important events. She was sharp, pleasantly optimistic and beautifully unapologetic. Her sense of humour was...of an acquired taste, a strange mix of groan-worthy puns and cutting commentary on lazy disabled stereotypes that usually had her audience equal parts hysterical and uncomfortable. And yet, she took on the role of a star with ease Tweek jealously admired, greeting each cheer or deafening silence with grateful words and a dazzling smile.

After getting accustomed to her….volume, Tweek found Clyde to be good company. The brunette’s vast empathetic nature was accompanied by equally vast enthusiasm for trying every incredibly stupid idea - of which she had many. She was an enabler too, in the best kind of way. You had a passion, a fixation, or even something you had vague interest in? Clyde would not only listen to the ramblings with rapt attention, she would return the next day with a list of of even more things to indulge in - be it Vine compilations or documentaries.  
(This did lead to three days of no sleep and a frazzled argument about government conspiracies that ended with Tweek covering every webcam she could get her hands on with stickers. Rules had to be put in place afterwards.)

Token was effortlessly collected and endlessly resourceful, with a never-depleting supply of  band-aids of varying sizes and colours. One particularly slow music class, she coached Tweek through basic chords on the guitar, beaming proudly as the blonde’s shaky renditions slowly morphed into a clear melody by the time the bell rung.  
“The great thing about classic alternative British rock is that most of them are basically a single chord repeated a million times.” she explained with the seriousness of every action movie mentor. “And yet, everyone is always impressed when you can play them.”  

And Craig…  
Hanging out with Craig was shockingly easy.

At first glance, she was the exact culmination of every rumour about her - blunt to the point of rudeness, monotonous, emotionless save for the occasional flash of cruelty. On second glance, Tweek was shocked how Craig managed to keep being a _giant nerd_ such a well kept secret.

Her purchase choices were guided by about 20% research and 80% by cute packaging plastered with some form of furry critters. Stripe’s hats were all purchased off the Internet - she had tried to sew one previously, but found her skills lacking (a defeat she is still somewhat bitter about). She never spent any time customising her avatar in video games, but every pet or animal companion had an elaborate backstory. Consequently, she had loudly defended Mass Effect 3 (on several occasions, both online and offline) because of its superior space hamster content. Her love for the cosmos was all-encompassing, for both the scientific standpoints and all the fantastical stories people had spun about stars and deities over the centuries. Already itching for late summer and its promise of meteor showers, her telescope stood readily assembled in her room in anticipation.  
What made it so easy, though, was that Tweek soon learnt not to fret about ruses or hidden intentions with Craig. She made little secret of her dislikes.

The months slipped by, and the days Tweek found herself making excuses to eat lunch alone gradually declined. Invitations were no longer a shock, and the habit of waking up to at least four new messages every morning became a source of comfort rather than distress.

It's on a Friday night, sandwiched between Craig and Jimmy, when the realisation truly hits her. They're all at Token’s house, sprawled across the carpet around a Scrabble board. She's clutching a still-warm mug in her hand, biting back a snigger as she watches Clyde’s unsuccessful attempts at swiping Craig's latest word off the board.

“You can't put that!”

“You made us accept the name of Kanye West’s fashion label, Clyde. If that counts, then _this fucking counts_.”

Clyde’s cheeks puff up in indignation. Craig turns her head a fraction to catch Tweek’s eye. “Right?”

A quick glance around the room confirms that they are all waiting on Tweek’s judgement, expressions eager. And at once, she knows - without a doubt - that regardless of her decision, her word will be the final one, undisputed.  
With great effort, she manages a conspiratory smirk and a nod in Craig's direction. The responding grin, alongside Clyde’s wail of betrayal and Jimmy’s sniggers, keep her warm for the rest of the night. 

\---

On a few occasions, Craig would linger around her locker in between lessons. Sometimes, she shared tidbits of fresh gossip. Regularly, she would nag the blonde to give in and watch Red Racer already. More often than not, she would listen to Tweek rant about the annoyance of the day.  
On a particular Tuesday, her expression is one of scrutiny. She remains silent through Tweek’s two minute-long rant about the morning assembly, eyebrows furrowed. She is about to ask what troubled her when Craig finally speaks up.

“I can see your bra, you know.”

Tweek ends up being twenty minutes late to English, and Craig sports a textbook-shaped bruise on her forehead for the next few days (much to Clyde’s hysterical delight).

Despite the incident, Craig doesn't drop the issue. A week later, she is lingering by the blonde’s locker again, waiting until her books are safely in her bag before speaking up.

“I can see your bra.”

“Then stop looking!” Tweek snaps, slamming her locker door shut, motion harder than intended. She winces at the sharp noise, hunching her shoulders, whole body wracked with humiliation. She glares down at her mismatched buttons, traitorous hands still shaking, and wants to scream.  
Craig remains silent for a moment. When she speaks, her voice is cautiously soft.

“They’re taking pictures for the yearbook today in all the classes.” she says. Tweek can almost hear her shrug in her pause. “Just thought you’d wanna know.”

By the time she turns around, the taller girl is long gone.

It becomes a strange sort of routine. Tweek would either get a murmured warning, or a cardigan dumped unceremoniously on top of her head. On a handful of urgent occasions, Craig planted herself in front of the blonde as she hurriedly fixed her buttons, a stone faced human shield.  
Tweek is sorely tempted to question the point of this whole routine. Puberty hasn't been very generous with her - she got granted excruciating periods and barely any breasts. Her underwear is decidedly more practical than sexy. Overall, catching a glimpse would make for a terribly disappointing experience. The question is on the tip of her tongue every time - but the all-encompassing embarrassment ensures that it remains unsaid.

It's Tuesday once more and Tweek is running on four hours’ sleep. She's contemplating the quickest route to caffeine overdose when she hears Craig’s familiar cough.

“I can see your bra.”

“Enjoy the world's - _ngh_ \- worst peep show, then.” she murmurs, frowning at the combination of her locker. The numbers swim in front of her eyes as she blinks, prompting her to rub at them angrily.

Craig doesn't reply. When Tweek eventually turns to  face her, having finally freed her books, she finds the other girl frowning.

“Hold still.”

With that, Tweek is ushered into the corner, hidden from sight by Craig's body. Blearily, she lets the other rearrange her limbs, setting her bag down on the floor.  
And then she starts unbuttoning Tweek’s shirt.  
Her movements are quick and precise, fingers never brushing against her skin directly as she aligns the buttons correctly. Dumbstruck, Tweek doesn't get a chance to react before she's already done, fingers moving to straighten her collar.

“Give yourself a bit more credit then that.” Craig says after giving her shirt another tug, gaze pointedly focused away from Tweek’s face. “Either start charging pay-per-view, or button them up properly. See you at lunch.”

She whirls around, practically stomping towards the chemistry labs - leaving Tweek to stare after her, cheeks burning and completely awake.

The following morning, Tweek dons a tank top under her shirt. They don't talk about it again - but Craig's little smile upon spotting her leaves her stomach in warm knots for the entire day.

\--- 

It's Thursday, and she can tell it is going to be a bad day the moment she manages to drag her eyes open.

Her throat burns, both sticky and bone dry. Every breath sends small pinpricks of pain down her spine, wound tight with tension. Each of her limbs are encased in stony weight, the heaviest boulder sitting on the back of her neck, pressing her down, down, down.

God fucking dammit, and she had been doing so well too.

Swallowing, she squeezes her eyes shut, entertaining the idea of calling in sick. Deadlines and obstacles flash through her thoughts immediately, alongside the list of convincing excuses she would need to provide to one person, two persons, five -  
Within seconds, it all accumulates into an unbreachable roadblock, and the blonde has to fight the urge to dry-heave.

Downstairs, the TV blares. The clock ticks to ten past her initial cue to get up, and her phone dutifully plays her alarm’s chimes.

Tweek’s fingers curl into a fist, nails digging painfully into her palm. She resists the urge to claw at her arm.

The dread follows her on the bus, and all the way to school. She hopes for a semblance of normality once she's in her seat, but she’s uncomfortably hyper aware of her surroundings - the fluorescent lights are painfully bright above her, the smell of her neighbour's drink nauseatingly sharp, the sound of chairs scraping across the floor much, _much_ too loud.  
Still, Tweek tries. But her thoughts are like sand, slipping through her fingers no matter how desperately she tries to keep them together. The teacher asks her a question twice, annoyance evident when he receives stuttering and incorrect answers each time.

She manages to make it through a double period, bell ringing just as her pen simply snaps, soaking her fingers and haphazard notes in ink. And suddenly, it's just too much.

Grabbing her phone, she stumbles out of her seat and marches out of the classroom. Her feet carry her to the upstairs bathroom and into its furthest corner, where she gracelessly drops to her knees, curling into herself. Teeth find the still-tender skin of her wrists, eyes prickling with tears as she bites down. The pain that follows is striking and sharp.  
No matter how many times she finds herself in this situation, she is never any less lost. It's never any less overwhelming, never any fucking _easier._ Her shoulders shake and she almost screams, overwhelmed with frustration and disgust. Fingers grab for her hair, tugs frantic. She is going to end up crying in school _again,_ just because she is apparently that weak and that pathetic, and cannot fucking keep it together for a fucking week.

_I am so so so so fucking /tired/, I want out, I just fucking want out, I'm /so/ tired, I'm trying, I really am, this isn't /fucking fair/, I want out, /I want out/ -_

Suddenly, soft fabric is being draped over her shoulders. Warm hands slide over her own, slowly easing her hair out of the deathgrip.  
Craig offers no explanation for her sudden appearance when Tweek snaps her head up, a mess of tears and choked back sobs. She just gives her shoulder a squeeze.

“Too loud?” she asks, voice soft and careful. She must interpret something in Tweek’s expression because she reaches to pull her hat off, carefully tugging it snug over the blonde’s ears.

Tweek squeezes her eyes shut. The noise from the corridor fizzles into dull white noise. Warmth from the hoodie slowly envelopes her, wrapping her up in a scent she associates with long nights of videogames and guinea pigs. Hysteria’s grip eases, just a little bit.

“Tweek.” she hears Craig murmur, shuffling closer. Fingers brush against her arm tentatively. “Hey. Talk to me.”

She flinches back, shoulders stiffening in an attempt to curl up tighter. Craig's movements pause before her hand moves to stroke her arm instead.

“Hey, it's okay.” she is quick to add. There's a rustle before Tweek feels careful pressure over her broken skin, wet toilet paper leaving stinging in its wake. “Did someone upset you in class? I can have the fucker dangling from the top of the flagpole by lunchtime.”  
It's unexpected enough of an offer that it startles a laugh out of her. For some reason, distantly, she finds it sweet.

“N- _nghh_ ....bad day.” she manages to rasp out, swallowing. “Brain sluggish. Fucked. Everything - _nghh_ \- hurts.”  She cringes at how awful she sounds, voice scratchy, overpowered by her verbal tics. Pathetic, weak, broken.  
Craig doesn't comment on it. She continues to dab at her skin until the blood is gone, movements slow and calculated.

“Yeah?” The prompt in her voice is gentle enough to ignore, should Tweek want to. An easy way out. The blonde’s gaze drops down to the taller girl's fingers for a moment. Her blood looks wrong on dry, tanned skin.

“It feels like my bones are….constantly itching.” she whispers eventually. Her tongue wets her lips. “From the inside. Like it's this….deep set ache, and I can't do anything to ease it and it just hurts.”

Craig's thumb traces a circle against her skin, slow and rhythmic. She focuses on the sensation, idly counting each second it takes to complete a rotation.

“Sometimes….sometimes I just….I think about breaking my bones.” She raises a shaky hand to her collarbone, pressing it against the protruding bump. The words, despite occupying her mind much too often, feel heavy and clunky on her tongue. She doesn’t remember ever admitting them out loud. “Clawing it open, grabbing on here and...snapping it.”

At a faintly conscious level, she knows the scientific term for this train of thought, this urge. She knows it's as unproductive as it is unhealthy and dangerous. But she's so tired, her body so wound up with anxiety and tension - her exhausted brain in complete conviction that snapping her collarbone would grant her release.  
Craig doesn't reply immediately. She remains a still, solid presence by her side, occasionally pressing another tissue into her sticky hands.

“Collarbones are pretty tough.” she says after a pause, as if they were discussing a biology assignment. Her lips curve just a little as she gives the blonde’s bicep a nudge. “You won't be snapping anything with your scrawny arms.”

Tweek barks out a startled laugh, shooting the other an incredulous look. The sound soon dissolves into little giggles of disbelief until she runs out of breath, post-breakdown exhaustion slowly creeping in. Her companion makes no move to escape still, gaze steady with conviction.  
It takes a few tries to breathe again. She manages, eventually. Somehow, she feels just a tiny bit lighter.

“Dick.” she replies, voice still hoarse. Craig shrugs, looking far too pleased with the reaction. She extends a hand, and Tweek lets her tug her up and on her feet. To her surprise, she finds herself pulled into a hug.

“....looks like it really hurts. Already.” Craig murmurs above her, voice a little muffled by messy blonde hair. “You don't need broken bones too.” 

They leave the bathroom together, Tweek still wrapped up in the navy hoodie. They're halfway to the nurse’s office before she realises where Craig is leading her. She cannot find it in herself to put up a fight.

\---

Small bottles of lotion start finding their way into Tweek’s bag and pockets after that, accompanied by the occasional stress ball. Once, she thinks she catches a glimpse of a familiar booklet about anxiety and panic attacks in Craig's backpack before she zips it shut.  
It's...sweet. Clumsy, somewhat, and not exactly practically impactful. But the sentiment is genuine and the effort is...more than she feels she deserves sometimes.

She gets texts a little more often, especially on days where she cannot bring herself to initiate conversations. Mostly, they’re nothing out of the ordinary - updates on Stripe’s ever-expanding playground, pictures of Stripe enjoying said playground, top ten lists involving aliens or coffee (and on one notable occasion, aliens with coffee). Sometimes, it’s an enquiry about her well-being. Once, a well-intending, if not blunt message offering to lend her an ear should she ever need one.  

It’s not exactly an easy proposition - the thoughts and the urges are hard even for the blonde to pin down and give phrase and form to. Admitting and sharing them out loud seems like an impossibly daunting task. However - the one thing she knows - believes - for certain that the offer is genuine and without a deadline. 

The bite marks slowly fade.

\---

Craig had started collecting for a car long before her sixteenth birthday was a topic of discussion. It had been a long, painstaking process - the road to an automobile was paved with countless temptations, unpleasant surprises (driving lessons cost _how much_ ) and one particularly painful failure. (Tweek could still hear Craig’s broken voice repeating that it was a limited edition, extremely limited edition, they _only made two hundred, Tweek, it was a limited edition_ \- )  
But she persevered, and eventually, her efforts came to triumphant fruition. After sixteen candles were blown out, and everyone was covered in an unnecessary amount of confetti (courtesy of an unholy partnership between Clyde and the younger Tucker sibling), the birthday girl was presented an envelope by her beaming parents - with a promise hidden inside to generously help round up her saved funds after she passes her driver’s exam. 

To Tweek, the idea is both exhilarating and aneurysm-inducing. Not being forced to plan around a bus schedule (also completely extracting the bus from the equation) was something they were all willing to murder for. But they'd also be forced to exchange one metallic death machine for a slightly smaller death machine. That didn’t enjoy the benefits of generally being the biggest vehicle on the road. Where all their lives were in the hands of their friend.  
Let it be noted that the blonde’s confidence in said friend runs deep. She blindly accepts the various cups that Craig presses in her hands, not even bothering to sniff its contents before chugging it. She shared her email password with her. Lately, she doesn’t even glance up from her phone once Craig grabs her by the elbow, guiding her through any inevitable crowds. If she had the opportunity and the inclination, she would bet irresponsibly large amounts of cash on Craig’s ability to keep the people she cared about safe to the best of her abilities.  
But that doesn’t mean she doesn’t _fret._ And google an unnecessary amount, and end up knowing far, far, _far_ too many statistics than she is comfortable with.  
Because she is a good friend, she resists the urge to make a spreadsheet and email it over to Craig.  
Just about. 

As expected, when the blonde makes her way to the Tucker residence the following day, she finds Craig in the middle of killing hordes of the undead, still dressed in faded pyjamas, a sleepy Stripe nestled in her lap.  
Her steady predictability is usually a source of great comfort for Tweek - however, right now, it only makes her frown. The driving test is in two weeks and Craig has definitely not studied enough. She clears her throat before dumping her bag down on the carpet, dropping down onto her knees and tugging its contents free.

“I printed off the last three years’ worth of exam and practice papers.” she announces once the folder is free, wielding it like a holy tome. The thick learner’s manual soon follows. “Plus, the Reddit thread with all the common mistrappings and rookie mistakes. I haven't - nghh - highlighted the last three pages yet but it should be enough to get started.”

“Morning, Tweek.” comes the reply, gaze fixed on the screen until the last corpse is slain, leaving her free to save the game. Tweek rolls her eyes.

“It’s one in the afternoon, Craig.”

“You need to say hi to Stripe.” Craig says, completely ignoring the comment. She drops the controller, shifting to face the blonde properly. “He will be awake soon enough, and then he will get upset once realising you didn’t immediately attend to him.”

“You’re creating a monster.” Tweek feels inclined to point out even as she’s already moving to stroke the guinea pig in question, gently scratching the top of his head until she hears a familiar, satisfied purr. With their combined effort, Stripe is well on his way to becoming the most spoiled animal in the whole of Colorado. Worst of all, Tweek never seems to run out of ideas to enable and encourage the taller girl in this quest.    

“....how many trees did you sacrifice for this?” Craig asks, cutting through her thoughts. She reaches to poke at the folder with a frown, flipping it open. “Were you up until three again?”

“It’s in two weeks!” she retorts, giving Stripe’s fur one last ruffle before crossing her arms. “That’s barely enough time to prepare!”

Dark eyebrows arch until they’re almost touching her hairline. Craig tilts her head, expression flitting between confused and amused.  

“I’ve gone through the manual already with my dad, and I’ll just take a few of those practice tests.” she says, thumbing through the pages of Tweek’s research regardless. “The lessons were good, and you've seen me park in the driveway. I’ll be fine.”

“What if you get a sexist old fart who thinks women shouldn't drive, and tries to trip you up?!” Tweek insists, resisting the urge to give Craig a shake. There was Stripe’s well-being to consider, after all. She tugs the manual on her lap instead. “What if there are sheep on the road? Or a bear? Or another giant mecha? You have to be prepared for everything!”

“It’s just a driving test for a standard car, dude - wait, why did you include this whole section on driving through a hurricane? We don’t get - ”

Tweek slams the book shut loud enough to make the taller girl jump, blue eyes wide when the blonde’s index finger is shoved in her face accusingly.

“I am not letting you get hurt over some stupid mistake because you weren't prepared enough!” she growls, giving Craig's nose a warning twist before grabbing the manual again, flipping to the correct page with aggressive precision. “Now. Basic checks before you turn on the engine?”

There is a long, pregnant pause. And then, a rustle of pages. When Tweek glances up, Craig’s cheeks are flushed red, mouth set in a determined line.

“I first put my seat belt on - “

\---

The two weeks pass in a flurry of practice papers, repetition and stress (mostly on Tweek’s part), and all too soon, the exam date arrives.  

The appointment creeps up on her as she’s slaving away in the back room of the coffee shop, taking the inventory. It passes by as she finally takes her lunch break, tapping through her apps with neck-break speed in hope for some sort of update. Save for Clyde's loud lament at the lack of texts, she receives nothing. Craig had warned this might be the case, with her whole family accompanying her to Denver, confident enough to include a trip to the car dealership in their plans for the afternoon.

The rest of the day crawls by in the same frustrating fashion. By the time the sun has set and dinner was concluded, Tweek feels justified in approaching a freak-out. She grabs her phone, fairly certain she has Laura Tucker’s number saved somewhere - exactly as a new message pops up in her notifications. 

 **(21:15) Craig:** _sry 4 radio silence. 2 much pprwrk. ETA 5mins. dress warm_

Tweek stares at her screen. The words remain both cryptic and an insult to the English language. She texts back four whole rows of question marks before throwing her cupboard doors open to search for a sweater.  
There’s a honk outside just as she's tugging on her socks. Swearing under her breath, the blonde yanks on her boots and practically sprints outside.  
Neatly parked in her driveway is an unfamiliar car. It's blue - of fucking course it's blue - and at first glance, fairly new. The window is rolled down, Craig's elbows poking out. When she spots the blonde, she leans out further, extending her arm to wave an official-looking certificate her way. Her eyes are sparkling, eyeliner smudged, hat slightly askew. Tweek’s heart swells and she's just so - so fucking proud of her.

“You ass!” is what she ends up saying aloud, giving the other's arm a smack when she is close enough. “You scared the shit out of me!”

“Sorry.” Craig offers, sounding sincere despite her all-encompassing grin. “You wouldn't believe how many forms it takes to legally get a car.”

Tweek is familiar. Just thinking of the number of pages on the insurance document samples online prompts a shudder.

“Any troubles? Cows? Aliens? Sexist assholes?”

“Just a few overly enthusiastic people at the crossing. I didn't run Randy Marsh over when I had the chance to. Although I think that would have gotten me a few extra points.”

Swallowing an ugly snort, Tweek leans closer to take a better look at the interior. Everything is clean, fabric of the seats well-worn around the edges. The radio looks a little….vintage, but nothing a little hunting on eBay won't solve. She hopes to see the smooth plastic of the dashboard covered in nerdy vinyls by the end of the week.

“This is so cool!” she breathes, bouncing on her toes. She resists the urge to try and latch on to her friend through the narrow window. “You _did it!!”_

Craig’s eyes crinkle, smug grin softening. She taps the seat next to her.

“Come on, get in. I want to give my unforgiving private instructor a ride.”

\--- 

Craig is a careful driver. That, or she's conscious of Tweek’s apprehension to cars in general. Either way, she's grateful.

“I thought you would have tried for a red car.” the blonde remarks, thumbing through the documents in the glove box.

“Red cars stick out like a sore thumb. They're more likely to get vandalised or pulled over for a random check.”

She sounds like she's reciting a script. Tweek bites her lip in an attempt to keep a straight face. “Uhuh.”

Silence. Then, a sulky sigh.

“....and all the red cars at the dealership were overpriced. And shit.”

With a delighted snigger, Tweek lets the topic drop.

The roads are empty after the dinner rush, and soon enough, they're pulling up to the parking lot near the edge of the woods. The destination is a surprise until they climb out - and the sky unfolds over them, vast and unrestricted.  
She tears her eyes away from the emerging stars just in time to witness Craig climbing on the hood of the car. She carefully folds her mile-long legs, letting her boot-clad feet dangle off the side before patting the space next to her.

“We'll mess the paint job!”

“Better step carefully then.”

Five minutes of protests, scrambling and some assisted manoeuvring later, Tweek is admiring the sky from her elevated seat, glass cool against the back of her jacket.

“This is awesome.” she sighs, completely content despite the chill. Craig hums in agreement.

“We can go to the late night screenings now, or to any sort of exhibition. We could try the clubs in Denver. When the meteor showers hit, we don't have to rely on anyone or worry about walking home.”

With each proposal, her voice gets a little louder and more animated. Tweek tilts her head to watch her, chest tightening with a flash of helpless adoration.

“I'm really proud of you.” she whispers once the taller girl pauses to take a breath. Craig stills, like a deer caught in headlights before quickly tugging her hat halfway down her face. The blonde idly notes that the tips of her now-exposed ears were red.

“Well. I owe you big. You were really good at kicking my ass into gear.” she murmurs, tugging the hat off completely before smirking again. “The old farts down at the DMV had nothing on your pre-exam rage.”

Heat creeping up her neck, she can feel herself flush red. With embarrassment or with praise, she's not quite sure.  
They huddle closer as a cold gust of wind sweeps through the clearing. Somehow, their elbows end up locked together, Craig's gloved hands covering Tweek’s bare ones. Briefly, she entertains the idea of taking a selfie. The light is horrendous, and the picture would no doubt turn out unfocused and unflattering - but she wants to burn this moment into cold, hard pixels, wants a physical reminder to carry in her pocket. She doesn’t want to forget any of this. The next time her brain ensnares all her memories in a hazy filter of doubt - which it no doubt will, soon enough - she wants this to look back on.

“We make a good team.” she whispers. The grip around her arm tightens, and she hears the smile in Craig's voice without having to look.

“Fuck yeah, we do.”

\---

The photo of the starry sky turns out surprisingly decent. At the very bottom of the photo, there's a hint of two pairs of boot toes.  
Tweek sets it as her background. She eventually stops fighting the urge to smile every time she unlocks her phone. 

\---

“I'm thinking about getting a tattoo “ 

Tweek whips her head up from her textbook, physics problems immediately forgotten. Craig extends her right arm, tracing the skin just below the inside of her wrist. She has to resist the urge to lick her lips, mouth suddenly a little dry.

“Andromeda?” she ventures a guess. She's rewarded with a pleased smile.

“Yeah, I think so. And then I could add onto it. Planets, more stars. Maybe a satellite.”

Tweek swallows. She pictures a galaxy slowly unfolding across her arm. She imagines dark ink twisting under her skin, design shifting when Craig flexes a muscle - and her stomach dips with something akin to desire.

“I think it would look great.”

\---

Craig's clothes always smell like fabric softener - soft enough as not to overwhelm but strong enough to be soothing. (The Tuckers take laundry day very seriously.) The subtle faux oceanic scent is much more evident when the blonde is tucked against her side, navy hoodie-covered arm slung around her shoulders.

The Colorado weather often treats the calendar dates as a suggestion rather than a rule, and cold evenings are an annoying constant - as are the regular complaints that accompany this. Tweek was grumbling about how trying to dress for the weather was a task doomed for failure from the start, and what _exactly_ was the point of the weather forecast if you were just forced to choose between a heat stroke and frozen ass every time -  
Next thing she knows, she is being tugged against the taller girl’s side, a blanket draped over her legs with a droning request to shut up and watch the movie.  
The TV flashes with a sudden scene change, the character stumbling into a lamppost. Craig sniggers, causing both of them to jostle, Tweek’s pulse jumping to the sky with it.  
If she shifts just slightly, she can make out the tiny grooves on Craig’s earrings, the exact spots where her close-cropped hair is growing out.  
Her arm stays curled around her shoulders for the rest of the movie. Minutes melt into hours, her touch slowly burning through the fabric of Tweek’s shirt.

\---

She wakes up in the middle of the night, pulse pounding in her throat and sheets soaked in sweat. The images from her dream - from her traitorous, wanting subconscious - don’t fade in the slightest with every rapid blink. Tweek swears she can still taste her on her tongue.  
Knuckles digging into closed eyes, she lies awake until sunrise, body wrecked with unchasable thoughts of every horrible possibility.

\---

In the daylight, she tries again. 

Perhaps she is overreacting. A truly revolutionary concept.  
The world probably wouldn't end if it became somewhat common knowledge that Tweek is attracted to women. (Probably.)

Her home life would remain depressingly unchanged. Her father would probably jump at the opportunity to use her as a poster girl to lure in a new demographic. She could probably expect a few pamphlets on safe sexual practices from her mother. She might even muse aloud on how much this affects her chances of getting grandchildren - followed by a remark that perhaps Tweek not having children might not be such a bad idea, in the end.  
The implication of the theoretical conversation makes her blood boil for three long seconds, prompting her to press her face into a pillow to muffle a scream.

 And then there was the matter of Cartman.  
Cartman, who would _definitely_ have a field day with this.  
Cartman, who would refuse to get changed in the same room with her anymore. Who would pull out every off coloured joke about fish smells and dykes. About being _greedy_ . Who would no doubt introduce her to new people as a carpet muncher, or worse, some fucking _predator_ whose kindness served the sole purpose of getting potential action.  
She remembers what it was like to be her punching bag when they were younger, when her crimes only consisted of her anxiety and the fact she was not Kenny. The thought of having to deal with it all over again prompts another scream into the pillow.

It was hard enough as it was. Having to double-check her actions - to make sure her stares weren't too obvious, her compliments not too enthusiastic, her interest not too apparent. She wanted - God, she wanted, but was petrified of inviting more unwanted attention - making others uncomfortable - disgusted, _aware_.

She takes a deep breath, forcing herself to try and hold the burgeoning panic at bay - _find your happy place, happy place._

It's not like the bullying of queer people was rampant in their town. The redneck population embodied every lazy stereotype of intolerance - but they were just as likely to spew abuse due to race, age, financial status, religious beliefs. They were ready to fight anyone and everyone. It'd probably be a hot topic at school for a few days - but like everything else, it'd be old news in a week at least. Cartman’s persistent nastiness notwithstanding, there was only so much she could do with a bored audience.  
And it's not like there _weren't_ other queer people in town. Stan’s uncles Jimbo and Ned, in their mountain cabin and steadfast partnership. The blissfully married Big Gay Al and Mr Slave. The trainwreck of a human being that was Garrison.

Then there was Kenny, who made small secret of her lack of discrimination when it came to attractive people.  
No one so much as batted an eye anymore. But...no one took her seriously, either.  
Cartman once remarked that Kenny’s obsession with boobs was just a part of her white trash heritage - deeply ingrained in her alongside the taste for Pabst Blue Ribbon beer, an aversion to showers and inevitable fate to get knocked up at 16. But that was about about as useful as anything Cartman said - which is to say, not at all.  
Regardless of ill informed stereotypes and needless cruelty, it echoed the widespread assumptions about the middle McCormick sibling. Her affections towards other girls was listed as just another one of her perversions. However, Tweek could tell that the notion bothered her - to have her feelings cheapened like that, to have her desires interpreted as some urge to imitate lesbian pornography. Despite being very open - much too open - to discussions about all things risque, Kenny was very good at keeping important things under wraps and close to heart. But there were moments. Fleeting cracks in her armour every time she forgot her gaze on her redheaded childhood friend.

Tweek recognised that look - the softness, the warmth, the fierce affection. The fear, the weariness, the bone-deep _longing_. Her heart twisted with weary sympathy every time. 

In the quiet privacy of her room, she wonders if carrying it will get easier as the years pass. Bandaged fingers pluck at the sheets before tugging it over her head, exhaustion seeping in.

_Prove me wrong. Please prove me wrong._

\---

“I really hate you.”

“Hurry _up!_ ”

Craig lets out another long, unattractive groan, tugging the scarf tighter around her neck. If she squints, the blonde can still see the crease her pillow left imprinted on her left cheek. Alongside a faint smear of toothpaste. The taller girl truly was at the height of her glamour first thing in the morning.

“Why are you dragging me out into the wild at _eight in the fucking morning on a Saturday?_ ”

“Because you're the one who pushed me to apply for the theatre productions.” Tweek reminds her, just a little gleefully. “That means you help me practice.”

“By the fucking lake? At _eight a.m. on a Saturday?_ ”

“I'm not going to scream at imaginary demonic forces to unsex me and give me the strength to commit murder where either of our parents can hear us!” the blonde protests hotly, flushing at just the thought. Craig's tired eye rolling is dutifully ignored.  
The spot she had in mind is thankfully devoid of both trash and hungover college students when they arrive. Craig moves to sweep the excess snow off the solitary bench whilst Tweek tugs the scripts free from her bag.

“I wanna run through the first monologue a few times, and then the scene where she tells her husband to get over himself and murder the king already.”

“....As you do.” comes the dry response. “An essential for every healthy marriage.” 

If forced to be brutally honest, Craig was not the best practice partner. When called to act, she only had two modes - signature unenthused or ridiculously over the top. She spent most of the time frowning at the script, butchering the old English words - something Tweek found baffling from someone who read astrophysics journals in her spare time.  
Simultaneously, no one’s presence provided the same constant source of approval and assurance. To Craig, every performance was noteworthy - but after Tweek’s insistence that she needed actual critique, she dutifully researched each role in advance to make sure she knew the characters, from personalities to driving forces.

“We don't have to jump straight to the script. Help me get into character?”

Craig nods, muffling another impressive yawn behind a gloved hand. Despite her obvious lethargy, the blonde knows her friend is just as excited and nervous as she is (okay, probably about half as nervous, which is still significant by Craig's standards). This marks the first time Tweek is auditioning for a villain, and she's itching to get some practice in before she can cave into the usual onslaught of self-imposed impossible standards and pressure.  
She takes a deep breath, quickly running through her mental checklist for one Lady Macbeth. Noble woman. Impeccable host, perfect player of the games of the time. Alarmingly ambitious. Smart, skillful, manipulative. Extremely thirsty for the crown. She allows her shoulders to fall back, lifts her chin, hands clasping carefully in front of her. Per the advice of Charlize Theron, she thinks of _murder_ as she opens her eyes and fixes her gaze on Craig. When she opens her mouth, her voice comes out strong and demanding. (She has to suppress a shiver at the stunned surprise that she finds in her friend's expression. She doesn't think she'll ever tire of Craig's reaction every time she takes on a role.)

“There you are.” she says, tone pointedly implying she's been kept waiting. She then smirks. “I've got to say, my lord - for one possessing such startlingly long legs, you sure took your sweet time getting here.”

Judgemental silence is her response, accompanied with a look of betrayal. Huffing, Craig flips the blonde her middle finger before crossing her arms.

“Kindly go fuck thyself, my noble lady.” she snipes, voice dipping a few octaves lower and _oh_ , Tweek cannot fucking help herself.

“A task better suited to you, I believe.” she croons, closing the distance between them in three confident steps. The effect would be better if she were wearing a floor-length dress, material moving enticingly with each stride. Judging by Craig's expression, however, it is still pretty effective in jeans.

“Shameless.” she mutters in response, moving to tug at her collar. Still emboldened, Tweek reaches to run her fingers along Craig's arm, smirk downright lecherous by Elizabethan standards.

“The nights get long and lonely without you, my lord.” she murmurs, allowing her fingers to linger at Craig's shoulder before pulling back. “But if you wish to discuss shameless, let us. I got your letter.”

The exchanges soon pick up the pace, Craig's awkwardness easing into quiet determination. They move through the plot points with ease - witches in the bushes, questionable prophecies, Macbeth’s pathetic reservations about murdering his king. She loved taking on roles of passionate people, and Lady Macbeth was as passionate and wonderfully immoral as they came.  
Tweek takes a deep breath, ready to launch into the practiced tyrade when gloved hands suddenly cover her own, Craig crowding into her personal space.

“Is regicide truly the only way to achieve power?” she asks in the same calm voice she uses when Tweek is in a panic. Annoyingly, she can already feel her posture instinctively relaxing in response. All her attention zeroes in on Craig's eyes - concerned, cautious  - mind going helpfully blank.

_What the fuck._

“Please, reconsider, my love. You don't want me tainting my hands with such an act against nature?” Craig continues, still speaking in that infuriatingly soothing tone. Her thumbs trace Tweek's bare knuckles. “Duncan is a good king. He will reward our loyalty and achievements greatly.”

_What the actual fuck._

“A- _ahh!_ I - we - “ she manages, swallowing hastily. “B-but -”

The pleading facade immediately cracks with a smirk, hands pulling back to rest cockily on her hips.

“Come ooooon.” Craig taunts, eyes crinkled in amusement. She clicks her tongue. “Are you going to give up your Queenly ambitions so quickly cuz of a sad look?”

Sneaky _son of a bitch._

“Asshole!” she hisses, hands scrubbing over her cheeks. They're practically burning. “That's cheating!”

“Kenny’s puppy eyes are better than mine.” the taller girl replies, completely nonplussed. “And she plays dirtier. Gonna be a real short play if you just let your husband off the hook on the first sad look.”

Tweek almost laughs at the absurdity of the suggestion - as if anyone could evoke this same reaction from her. Regardless, it’s _fucking on now._  

“Again.” she demands, lips pressing into a tight line. The other has the gall to fucking curtsy before walking back into starting position.

They try again, and again, and a few more. Craig is merciless, pulling out all the stops to make her splutter and stumble. At one occasion, her Macbeth gets somewhat hysterical, outright accusing Lady Macbeth of being a manipulative, cruel bitch. The accusations are delivered from where she collapsed onto her knees on the ground. She looks absolutely ridiculous. Tweek briefly entertains the idea of kneeing her in the jaw. (Carefully).  
By the time their stomachs are audible in their protests for lunch, the blonde feels completely ready to cajole a man to kill a king in cold blood. She can tell her partner agrees, her satisfaction bleeding through Macbeth’s weary resignation. A part of her wants to suggest pushing on, to try it from the top, to move on to the scene when they're King and Queen. She loathes the thought of calling scene, to let it end. Biting back a sigh, she flicks a hand towards her stand-in-husband dismissively.

“Now that you finally have a firm grip on your manhood again, go.” she commands. “Go and see to it that it's done.”

Craig nods, squaring her shoulders. The weariness is gone, but the determination in her eyes lingers. Just as Tweek’s posture starts slumping, the dark haired girl closes the distance between them, one arm curling around her waist whilst the other grabs her hand. She meets Tweek’s incredulous gaze head-on - and then proceeds to fucking dip her.  
Akin to a fucking Harlequin romance cover.

“I got to say.” Craig breathes, eyes still gleaming. “You make planning regicide extremely attractive, oh dear wife of mine.”

That's all it takes for Tweek to break character in a glorious fit of laughter, flushing crimson to the tips of her ears. Amidst her squirming, attempts to grab at Craig and the other's rebuttal of dipping her further and further back, it's a miracle they stay upright for a good five seconds before tumbling off balance. The ground is hard and unforgiving, the snow a shocking chill against her skin. With some difficulty, she rolls onto her back. Another giggle escapes her, a lot more breathless.

“Jesus Christ, man.”

Next to her, Craig moves to sit up, methodically brushing the snow off her coat. Her hat has fallen askew, cropped hair frosted with powdery white. She glances over, lip twitching.

“You look like a Christmas ornament who fell off the tree, and is really happy about it.”

That earns her another peal of laughter, the blonde wriggling all her limbs in a very tired attempt to make a snow angel. By the time she’s upright again, Craig is already on her feet.  

“I think you’re pretty much set. They’re all going to shit themselves over the letter scene.”

“I still have to audition, remember?” Tweek points out, grabbing onto Craig's extended hand. She idly notes that her fingers have now gone numb with the cold.

“Oh please, like any of those fuckers stand a chance.” the other snorts, recoiling as their hands touch. “What the actual fuck, Tweek, your hands are colder than the snow. Where are your gloves?”

“I forgot them on the table. But I’d just lose them anyways.”

“Tie them to your fucking sleeves then.” Craig snipes, her grip tightening before she moves to slide their fingers together, tugging Tweek towards the direction of the town. “I’m not digging around in the snow to find your fingers when they fall off.”

Their steps fall in sync with ease. Her skin prickles with the sudden warmth, almost painfully so, exhilaration still tingling under her skin. Slowly, she curls her fingers against Craig’s.  

“You would.” she murmurs with conviction.

It’s only until the school building becomes visible, and Craig pulls her hand away in favour of finding her car keys that Tweek realises she’s been holding her breath. 

\---

It’s Monday, and Tweek is running late.

By some divine fate, she doesn’t spill any coffee anywhere, or drop her phone whilst sprinting across the yard and through the corridors. She can feel eyes on her all the way, and prays her buttons hadn’t come completely undone. Or that at least one of the bobby pins stayed in her hair throughout the ordeal. Token and Clyde are already waiting by her locker by the time she gets there. Upon her approach, the brunette whips her head up, expression one of betrayal.

“Tweek Tweak!” she declares in way of a greeting. “How come you didn’t tell me?”

Just little Monday things.

“I’m only ten minutes late.” she grumbles in response, wrenching her locker open. “I didn’t think that warranted a story.”

From the corner of her eye, she can see her friends exchanging a glance.  

“Uh, not that. I’m talking about your date with Miss Grumpy Giraffe.”

The sharp sound of Tweek’s forehead smacking against her locker echoes down the corridor. She barely feels the pain as she whirls around, fixing her friend with a bewildered stare.  

“ _What?!_ ”

“There’s….a lot of people….talking.” Token says carefully, one hand hovering over Tweek’s arm.  

“Squealing.” Clyde corrects immediately, earning an irritated sigh.

“Shush. There’s a rumour that someone saw you guys out at Stark’s Pond on Saturday getting...cozy?”

“Like, reaaally cozy.” the brunette drawls. “And then walking off holding hands?!”

The realisation clicks into place and Tweek swears she can taste the impending heart attack in the back of her throat. Dread floods through her body, cold and all-encompassing, leaving her chest tight and her mind scrambling.

“Drama practice!” she splutters, eyes already twitching traitorously. “Craig was helping me with drama practice! It’s for the - ack! - role of the wife! I left my gloves at home!”

“I thought as much.” Token says, shooting a pointed look at Clyde. The blonde risks a glance at the brunette, whose expression crumbles to give way to weary acceptance and….disappointment? Her fingers spasm with the urge to grab at her hair.

“Where you did you hear this - you said there were people talking? Lot’s of - ngh! - people?!”

“Just a few. You know, the rumour mill brigade.” Strong fingers squeeze her bicep in an attempt to ground her. “They’ll talk anyone’s ear off if given the chance.”

Tweek nods absently. Her skin prickles, the stares from earlier uncomfortably re-contextualised. She takes a shaky breath.  

“Where’s Craig?” _What did she have to say about all this?_

“She had a thing at the counsellor’s office before class.” Clyde replies with a grimace. “Cuz she really needs a good dose of Mr. Mackey’s face before being stuck in the labs for for whole periods straight.”

_Does she know?_

“She wouldn’t have to if she could have just kept her opinions and her middle fingers to herself.” Token says with a roll of her eyes, looking exhausted already.

_Does she know? Does she know? Will she know - when will she know? How will she know -_

Arms wrap around her shoulders, tugging her out of her thoughts and into an insistent, fierce embrace. Clyde’s fingers splay over the center of her back, grip only relenting once she feels some of the tension seep from Tweek’s frame. Her frantic internal monologue dwindles into three words, a single concept - a chant, an order.

_Don't freak out. Don't freak out. Don't freak out._

“Come on. Let’s get to class.” Token chimes in by her side. “We no doubt can enjoy another rendition of ‘Is this what counts as news these days’ from Grandma Tucker at lunch.”

_Don't freak out. Don't freak out._

“Guess she will have a lot of people to flip off.” Tweek offers with a weak smile. “That’ll make her happy.”

“Oh, I’ll bet.”

The bell rings out above them, shrill and insistent. The blonde is halfway down the corridor when Token calls out her name again.

“Text her to let her know you’re okay, alright? I don’t want to spend my lunchtime convincing her not to break any noses.”

\---

Tweek sends Craig two messages once seated in the back of the classroom. The first one to let her know she made it to school okay, albeit late. The second one is an inquiry as to how the session with Mr. Mackey went.  
The hours pass, and she receives replies to neither one.

\---

By lunchtime, there are rumours have changed.

They say that Craig has been seen with certain boys from the football team. The quiet whispers say they saw her heading towards the field in between third and fourth period. The louder gossips report that they’ve seen them behind the gardener’s sheds, a certain handsome quarterback’s hands sliding around her waist and dipping lower before they ducked out of sight.

Craig cannot deny or confirm any of the rumours because it’s lunchtime and Craig is nowhere to be seen. 

Tweek stabs her fork into the shivering pile of mashed potatoes with _just_ a little more force than necessary, the thin line of her lips mirroring the clenching in her stomach. She can feel the eyes on her - dozens of stares, dozens of unasked questions. Sympathetic. Curious. Pitying.  
Vaguely, Token’s concerned look opposite her finally registers, prompting her to turn her fractured attention back on actually eating. Despite her best efforts, the food sours in her mouth, her mind unable to focus on anything else.       
Why would Craig – whose entire existence revolves around how little she cares about the opinion of others, who _revels_ in near orgasmic fashion in flaunting just how much she doesn’t care –  
Why would she decide to go out of her way to prove others wrong _now_ , all of a sudden?  
Craig has been a favoured target of rumours for as long as Tweek has been at the school. The accusations have ranged from gangs and secret drug addictions to sugar daddies and theories about possible furry associations. The only rumour that ever wrangled a reaction out of her were Cartman’s declarations that she shoved her beloved pets up her ass regularly. Anything else barely got a complaint. When the student body was convinced she and Clyde were having a torrid affair, she had been _amused_.  
And yet…

Her fork scrapes loudly on the surface of her plate. Something bumps against her arm.  
Was it her?  
Maybe it was less the fact that she was rumoured to be just gay and -  
Did the thought of being associated with being gay with Tweek horrify her that much?

It takes considerable effort not to clench her fingers into a tight fist – not to grab at her hair, to claw at the fabric of her shirt in an attempt to grasp the sudden nausea squirming through it, each new possibility her mind presents worse than the last.  
She could still explain. Her voice was loud enough, and she had the attention, she could explain to these people that it wasn’t like that -  
Someone calls her name. Her gaze drops down to her phone, open on the chat window she shares with Craig. Her last message is timestamped four hours ago. The screen stays stubbornly devoid of any incoming notifications.  
Throat tight, she lets her fork slip from her grasp and tumble on the table.

It didn’t matter.  
Craig’s made herself very clear – and if there’s one thing Tweek has learned over the years, it’s that Craig rarely changes her mind when it it’s made up. 

\---

At the end of lunch, she's miserable.  
By the end of the day, she's furious.  
A dozen texts sent, all without an answer. Craig is apparently too busy to respond to a question, an apology, a suggestion - to anything.  
Fuck. That.  
She's out of her seat at the first chime of the bell, marching straight past his whispering classmates. She thinks she hears Clyde call her name along with an enthusiastic encouragement.

If Craig really was so disgusted with Tweek’s gross gayness and the situation she landed them both in, she could damn fucking well have the decency to tell that to her face.

\---

Tweek liked Thomas Tucker.

She found him the most intimidating member of the family - at his towering height and resting-serial-killer-face not unlike his daughter. But she also found him to be patient, kind and fiercely protective of his family. He was a little traditional, making a habit of nagging Craig to just try growing her hair out again, or to maybe just consider other colours besides navy. Nevertheless, when it came to important decisions, he was a firm supporter in all of Craig’s choices - be it her proposed career plans, extracurricular activities or admittedly strange taste in friends.    
She doesn’t ever recall being on the receiving end of one of his scowls before. And yet, the look she receives after he opens the door is nothing short of hostile.

“A-ah - Afternoon. Is Craig here, sir?”

His frown only deepens.  

“Haven't you done enough?” he says, hand already moving to close the door without waiting for an answer.

“Thomas!” his wife's familiar voice behind him snaps. He freezes. His gaze lingers on Tweek’s determined expression and shaking hands.

“....she’s out back.” he replies after a short pause, stepping to the side to let the blonde in. “Five minutes.”

Predictably, she finds Craig hunched over her bike, twisting a bolt with vicious ferocity. The first sign of normality in this whole mess of upsetting unpredictability.  
She lingers for a moment, shoes loudly scuffing against the ground before she clears her throat.

“Hey.”

Craig's hands still long enough to warrant a glance over her shoulder before continuing their aggressive maintenance.

“What do you want?”

Monotone. Clipped. Belligerent.

“I want to know what your problem is!” she exclaims, crossing her arms tightly. “You've been ignoring me all day!”

“I was busy.”

“So we've all heard.” She's a little taken aback by just how _bitter_ she sounds - but she can't even bring herself to pretend that those particular rumours didn't get to her. That she doesn't hate every detail and every implication.

Craig’s movements pause again. Her free hand clenches, nails digging into her thigh.

“I had shit to deal with, and needed space.”

“....and you couldn't text me this?” Tweek moves one step closer. She hopes the back of Craig's neck is burning under her glare. “You could have told me this around the first three times I messaged you!”

“Well. Now you know.”

The blonde bites back a scream, hands grabbing at her hair. This was going nowhere. Deep breaths, _deep fucking breaths._

“It's just a - nghh! - stupid rumour! Which is why I don't get this! Usually, you would have a field day with mocking them. I was half expecting you to kiss me at lunch.”

She means to lighten the mood. Instead, Craig freezes. Her voice is sharp and louder than the blonde anticipates.

“Dude, I’m not gay, and neither are you!”

_Cue laugh track, with a slight hysterical tilt._

“What does that have to do with anything?” Tweek retorts, annoyance flaring back up again. “Last time this happened with Clyde, you fucking proposed to her in the courtyard and then flipped everyone off. Why are you being such an asshole about this?”

“Because everyone just fucking jumped on this one!” Craig snaps, whirling around to face her. “I barely stepped into school before they were all over me with their nosy fucking questions! All ‘congratulations!’ and ‘finally!’ and ‘oh I knew it all along!’” Her fingers are clenched into fists, eyes dangerously bright. “I saw someone drawing pictures of us in chemistry!”

A flash of weary sympathy cuts through her anger, prompting a grimace. She harboured similar thoughts about the artwork she caught a glimpse of in her last class - they'd given her fucking cat ears.  
Cute cat ears and a masterful depiction of a good moe-sleeve but that's besides the point.

“So yeah, excuse me for not wanting to talk to anyone with everyone treating me like some fucking closet case!”

“Would that really be so fucking terrible?” The question bursts out of her with unwarranted ferocity. She swallows before meeting Craig's gaze head on. “You...and me? Together like that? Does that really freak you out that much?” 

The next few seconds are lifted from every pretentious art movie. Time slows down as the taller girl goes perfectly still - then a foot is slammed on the accelerator. Emotions flicker across her face so fast that Tweek barely gets a chance to absorb any of them.

Shock. Realisation. Understanding. Fear.  
So much fear.  
What she doesn't see is disgust.  
Underneath it all - the anger, the annoyance, the lashing out - Craig is terrified. 

Before she can open her mouth, Craig has already turned back around, both hands braced on the bike's frame.

“I can't be something just because everyone wants me to be.” A pause. A swallow. An exhale. “I have to be myself. You'll just have to go be gay with someone else.”

Somehow, the words would have hurt more if Craig's hands weren’t been shaking the whole time, voice tight and face stubbornly out of sight.

So that was it.  
She was going to have to completely re-evaluate their relationship.  
No more help with her drama practice. No more spontaneous hand holding, or half-armed hugs. Craig probably will want her to stop showing up at her house unannounced too, whether motivated by panic or enthusiasm. She should probably start refraining from texting her at stupid hours of the morning, or keeping her up with chatter and obscure reading material.  
Like a normal friend. With sensible boundaries.

“Alright, Craig.” Her voice is steadier than anticipated. She slowly wrings her hands, the phantom warmth of Craig’s palm from yesterday burning through them.

She should leave.

“I didn't come here for that, though.” she finds herself saying, her gaze fixed on the back of Craig’s head. Even if she tried, she couldn’t look away. Or move an inch. “I came here because I was pissed at you for ignoring me like that. And because I was worried. I know what you being upset looks like - and I hate seeing you like that.”

Craig says nothing. A good of a sign as any to press on.

“You are….so...so important to me. You're the first one who told me to give myself more credit….that I was more capable than I thought.”

Time and time again. When Tweek needed it the most and again when she didn't even know she needed it.

“And you were right. I am.” she continues, allowing a very small smile to creep up on her lips. “You made me believe in myself in a way I never have before. And now...now, I think I can start trying to believe it too.”

Once the first confession slips free, the rest flows easily. No matter the outcome, she wants Craig to know - to know just what she gave to Tweek. No matter how their relationship needs to change, Tweek _needs_ Craig to know just what she is to her.  
She needs to know just how much the blonde loves her.

“I’m not expecting anything. I would never want to force you into….anything. N-not that I could - no one could, let's be real. You don’t owe me anything.” She winds her shaky fingers together, nails leaving deep grooves in her skin. “I just want to fix whatever is hurting you right now.”

Craig's shoulders shake, and Tweek’s chest tightens helplessly. Distantly, she thinks she hears a muffled sob from the direction of the house.  
The silence stretches between them. It tears at Tweek’s heart, but she understands. Often, good intentions alone cannot fix problems.  
So with a murmured farewell, she slips back inside the house and takes her leave. No one stops her on her way out. 

\---

For once, she’s grateful for her long shift the next day. It's both comforting and just distracting enough for her frazzled mind - take order, take payment, make order, guilt trip customer into the loyalty programme. Rinse, lather, repeat. No time or chance to slip into regretful panic, nor start contemplating all the possible future outcomes.  
Her phone screen flickers to life every few minutes. Clyde had taken it upon herself to copy and paste every single bird meme Google has to offer into Tweek’s inbox in her attempt to keep her cheers up. A hundred messages later, Jimmy followed it up with a promise to take the brunette outside for a distraction.  
She quickly thanks them both, blaming her blocked nose and blurry vision on the milk steamer. 

The shadows are already long when she hangs her apron up, light tinting the walls orange. Her parents had gone ahead a few hours ago, leaving her to close up on her own. She is re-counting the bills for the third time when a movement catches her eye, prompting her to glance up from the register.  
Craig is outside the shop.  
She looks restless, gaze flitting between her phone and the coffee shop window. Even from a distance, the agitation is clear in her bouncing leg, her tight expression.  
Tweek is going to throw up.  
Slamming the cashier shut, she takes a moment and a shaky breath. She moves through her closing checklist in record time, mostly out of muscle memory. Her knee bangs painfully against the side of the counter on the way out, keys trying their best to slip through her fingers as she locks the door. Craig’s gaze burns into her back through the whole process. When she’s finally done, she’s unsurprised to find the taller girl standing right behind her.

Their eyes meet. The same fear still lingers in her gaze, but this time, it dwarfs next to nervousness and determination.  
Wordlessly, Craig holds her hand out.  
She has no gloves on.  
Lightheaded, she reaches to take it.  
Her skin burns against hers just like she remembered. As soon as Tweek’s fingers slide against hers, she weaves them together in a tight grip.  
She was definitely going to throw up. All over the both of them, if she wasn't careful.  
Craig seems to be perfectly aware of her conundrum because of fucking course she is. She stands perfectly still and silent whilst Tweek wrestles her body under control, only shifting when receiving a shaky smile. She gives her hand a tug, prompting her to start walking. Vaguely, the blonde thinks she's being lead towards the playground. Or towards the woods, where she can get rid of Tweek’s body fairly easily.  
Somehow, the thought fills her with a mild sense of acceptance. If being bludgeoned to death at Craig’s hands is how she dies, it's nice to spend her last moments holding her hand. 

The destination turns out to be Tweek's house. Navigated through the busiest part of the town centre.  
With the rumours still fresh, attracting attention is both inevitable and frighteningly easy. The odd gasp from onlookers becomes a continuous chorus, peppered with occasional applause and a flash of cellphones. A quick glance at her face confirms that the taller girl isn't surprised by this at all. She had counted on it.  
The lines of her posture are all set in familiar, stubborn lines - head held high, stride purposeful, expression daring anyone to challenge her. Still, with each step, there's an unexpected flash of emotion - gleaming eyes, shoulders squaring nervously, a move to bite her lip aborted halfway through.  
And, at the heart of it, the cause, the purpose of it all, is Tweek.  
She has to look away when the violent butterflies make their vicious return, chest threatening to burst.  
Between their tightly clasped hands, Craig's palm gets sweaty by the time they reach the rhinoplasty. Her grip remains firm regardless.   

The crowds thin out once they reach the neat rows of houses. They come to a stop right outside the Tweak’s front door. A moment passes where they both (unsuccessfully) try stealing a glance when the other isn't looking.  
Tweek is the first to break, clearing her throat.

“So.”

Craig's eyes crinkle, her lips twitching. Tweek fights off the first signs of cardiac arrest.  

“I'm sorry.” she murmurs, gaze fixed on their hands. She tweaks one of the blonde’s fingers idly. “I've been a dick.”

Tweek hums, savouring the words - the rush of warmth, the relief they bring. Her grip tightens momentarily. “Hell of an - ngh - apology.”

Craig glances up at that, eyes wide.

“That wasn't an apology.” she says, voice strangely insistent. “Well. It was. Partially.”

Tweek waits somewhat patiently for an elaboration for a good few seconds. It never comes.

“Yeah. That clears everything up.”

Craig rolls her eyes at her.

“It was….uh. Hmm.” she huffs, expression scrunched in concentration. “...a declaration of intent.”

What.

“....did you suddenly turn 50 overnight?” the blonde feels inclined to ask, unable to hold back a laugh.

Tanned cheeks quickly darken, lips twisting. “Fuck off.” she grumbles, voice devoid of any heat. “You don't have a shift tomorrow, right?”

Tweek shakes her head.

“Cool. I'm taking you to dinner.”

She pauses. The grip on Tweek’s hand tightens as the taller girl leans in. The blonde barely has a moment to indulge in the familiar scent of fabric softener before lips press against her cheek. The kiss is firm, careful and somehow enough to make Tweek’s knees dangerously weak.  
In the back of her mind, she hopes Craig was wearing lip gloss, or chapstick. Anything to leave a big, shiny, physical mark on her skin.  
She pulls back all too soon, eyes electric and face red. Her voice is a determined whisper.

“It's a date.”

And with that, she is gone - marching off in the direction of her house like she has an entire army on her heels. 

Tweek thinks she goes inside after Craig disappears from sight. Her mother finds her sitting in the entrance hall half an hour later. Her polite questions are met with strangled, useless lesbian squawking.

\---

City Wok was the sole Chinese restaurant in South Park, Colorado (est. population 4833). This meant that weekend debates about where to order from were cut mercifully short. This also meant that as far as intimate settings for first dates went, it was...somewhat lacking - in hygiene, in ambience, in privacy. But there were few choices for a mid-week dinner date (on a student budget) that didn’t involve hours of driving and threats of breaking curfew.  
(Really, Craig could have been considerate and had her sexuality crisis closer to the weekend, but there was nothing you could do about that now.)  
Tweek shifts in her seat, the rigid plastic digging into her back. She thumbs at the edge of the laminated menu absently, stealing another glance at the girl opposite her.  
Craig’s gaze and attention is fixed solely on the food selection, like she cannot already recite the whole thing by memory. Her hair looks exceptionally well-groomed, and two permanent flushed spots stain her cheeks.      
She is also, Tweek notes with a slight jolt to her stomach, wearing lipstick.  
As if hearing her thoughts, she glances up. Her lips tug into a smirk.

“Reckon if we tell Mr. Kim we’re on a date, he’ll put some actual chicken into the food instead of the usual fried ‘coon?”

Just about biting back a shriek, Tweek swipes at her with the menu, her hiss razor-sharp. “ _No!!_ Don’t you dare start that shit up again!”

Craig has the gall to laugh at her, even when the hard plastic successfully connects with the top of her head. Tweek flops back in her seat, feeling the knot in her chest ease a little.  
Really, it’s not so different to when they were here last week, after a particularly gruelling day at school.  Save for the badly concealed glances and whispers from the corners of the restaurant, complete with a table of artists enthusiastically scribbling away into their sketchbooks.

“There was a picture in my locker this morning.” a dry voice says, tugging her attention back. She is already rolling her eyes. “I was wearing a maid outfit on it and was holding handcuffs and a spatula.”

Her mind is already providing the blonde with a lovingly detailed mental image. Investing in a face-obstructing hat seemed like a better idea with each passing second.

“They’re getting - nghh - bolder.” she mutters, fixing her gaze on the table. She hears a hum before Craig leans close, voice dropping to a whisper.   

“Did you notice that I'm always the one pushing you down and around in these pictures?”

She has.

 _"That’s_ what you - ack! - want to talk about? _Here?”_

“We can’t always talk about Stripe.” she replies seriously. “It’s not exactly promising if the kid is our only topic of conversation every time, Tweek.”

She doesn't even know where to begin with that one.

“Have you read through the menu yet?” she snipes back, look pointed. “And decided you want the exact same thing this time too?”

A fond flash of a middle finger and an order later, Craig pauses in the middle of snapping her chopsticks, eyes widening with realisation.

“It's the hair, isn't it.”

A snort, startlingly loud, escapes her. “It's the hair.” Tweek concedes, lip twitching. “And the height difference.”

The taller girl’s mouth twists, looking displeased with the revelation. “That’s stupid.”

“People - nghh - like their tropes, I guess. Plus you're the whole….you know.” She waves a hand, gesturing to Craig. She receives a blank stare for her troubles until she rectifies. “Tall, dark, mysterious.”

Her date promptly ruins the picture by flushing, grin turning decidedly smug. “My favourite trope.”

_You're a liar who lies, Miss ‘Classic Wholesome Superman is my favourite superhero’. Miss Glow-In-The-Dark-Stars-Sticker-Enthusiast. Miss ‘My ideal anniversary gift would be a trip to the planetarium’._

Unaware of the mental slander, the taller girl pulls Tweek’s plate closer to her, drowning her chicken in sweet and sour sauce generously. She even leaves a little spot empty in the side for the rice. Just how the blonde likes it.  

“So which trope are you then?”

“The weird twitchy outcast that always gets made over and original personality ironed out until they're conventionally attractive enough for the heterosexual love interest to acknowledge.” Tweek answers easily, lip curling in distaste. She tips a broccoli over onto Craig’s plate. “I might be able to pull Token Anxious Side Character off too.”

She hears the scoff before she sees the scowl. “That's bullshit.” Craig objects, tapping his fork against the china forcefully. “If anyone tried to make you over, they'd never be able to catch you. You’d leg it to Canada or break their wrists.”

She wasn't sure if the latter intended for that to be a compliment. Regardless, the sentiment sends a giddy rush through her, settling warm, deep inside her chest.

“Alright, smartass, give me a more accurate trope then.”

“....you know how there's always someone, usually a little quirky and throughout the story, their friends are always trying to set them up unsuccessfully? And at the end, they turn out to already have a super hot significant other?”

“That's - ack! - still awful!” she protests, voice shaky with traitorous laughter. “And just a _little_ self-congratulatory on your end, don't you think?”

“Hey, you bagged Tall, Dark and Mysterious. Many have tried but only you succeeded.” Craig drones. Under the table, her boot-clad foot bumps against the blonde’s. “By teen movie standards, you are the indisputable hero.”

“They’re both terrible choices!” Tweek declares, wielding her chopsticks like a particularly persuasive weapon. She shifts her legs, nudging the other's foot back. “I want a re-roll for my character!”

“Nope. We’re keeping this build. It's a capable one.”

There’s an underlying softness to her words, despite the monotone delivery. It already has Tweek tied up in familiar knots - of want, of wariness, of warmth. An electrifying mix of anxiety and anticipation, with dozens of new opportunities and consequences suddenly all within reach.  
Craig's free hand rests next to her plate, fingers curled into a loose fist. On impulse, Tweek reaches across to cover them with her own. She feels her stiffen in surprise before her fingers are twisting against her own, weaving them together snugly. 

She has to let go when Craig needs her hand to flip some gawking onlookers off.  
But only for a moment.

\---

They make it back home just shy of their curfew.  
Her body already longs for her bed, exhausted from the emotional onslaught. Her jaw aches from all the stupid amount of smiling. They pause in front of Tweek’s door, a flustered reenactment of the previous day. True to script, she clears her throat.  

“So.”

“So.” the taller girl echoes. Cheeky sod.

“That was….nice.” The words barely leave her mouth before she’s cringing, grip on Craig’s hand tightening. She sounded like she was thanking a distant aunt for a birthday card. “Really nice! It was fun. Easier then I thought it would be and - _argh!_ ”

A thumb traces over her knuckles as Craig shifts, voice mostly steady. “Yeah. It was really nice.”

A pause. She opens her mouth, bracing herself before her jaw snaps shut. A beat of silence, followed by more shifting of feet, budding frustration practically rolling off her. Tweek takes pity on her.

“You could declare more of your intentions now.” she suggests with an all-too-sweet smile. She swears she hears ten years escape Craig’s lips in the sigh that follows, leaving her an old, broken woman. Her smile only widens as the dark haired girl fixes her with a glare. “No, please. Was there a presentation? Did you make me a - nghh - list of pros and cons? You know how much my therapist loves me using those.”

“I actually had a musical number planned.” comes the reply, voice snide and dripping with sarcasm. “There was a stepladder and glitter involved. Too bad you’ll never get to see it now.”

“Are we talking ‘Singing In The Rain’ or ‘Chicago’?” She is picturing a striped suit, shiny shoes and a straw hat. Complete with a completely blank expression and perfect jazz hands.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”  

There really wasn’t anything particularly funny about her words, or her delivery - and yet Tweek found herself sniggering anyways. She hears another sigh, exaggerated this time before the other clears her throat.  

“I really, really, _really_ like you.” she says, in a single, rushed exhale. “In a gay way. I have no fucking idea what I'm doing, really, but I just know that I really like you, and I want us to be together.” She pauses to lick her lips, flush creeping across her nose and slowly down both cheeks. Her grip on the blonde’s hand borders on painful, and Tweek never wants her to let go. “You make me happy. And I like making you happy. We’re a really fucking good team together. Will you - would you - please be my girlfriend.”

Girlfriend. _Girlfriend.  
_ Idly, Tweek tries to remember how to breathe.

Craig’s expression turns a little more more flustered with every second, giving their joined hands a little shake. “And I know it’s probably going to be hard sometimes, and we’re going to piss each other off a lot, and honestly we need to talk about your article-sharing habits sometime soon, because there’s only so much hypothetical disasters-in-the-making I can read in a day but - “

“Craig.” Tweek finally interrupts, reaching up to give her hat’s dangling string a firm tug with her free hand. “If you don't shut up and kiss me now, I'll have to kick your ass all the way to Canada.”

Craig's jaw drops open, shock palpable before she starts laughing, high pitched and ridiculous. Her lips are still pulled into a smile when they finally - finally - press against Tweek’s. 

The lipstick was not designed to for kissing, as they found out.  
That, and Tweek looks extremely fetching smeared in Craig’s colours.   

\---

Lunchtime the next day is interesting.

Judging by expression alone, Tweek is fairly certain she doesn't need to get Clyde a Christmas present this year.

“And then~? Then what?”

“We had dinner. End of story.” Craig responds flatly, not even glancing up from her phone. Tweek would have felt bad for Clyde had she not known for a fact that the pouting brunette had already grilled the taller girl for details well into the night.

“Questionable management notwithstanding, I think that was a good choice, restaurant-wise.” Token chimes in, previously warm smile turning pointed as she glances at Clyde. The accused bristles immediately.

“There is nothing wrong with Taco Bell for a first date!”

“There are _so_ many things wrong with Taco Bell for a first date.” three voices protest in almost perfect unison. Clyde is _aghast_.

“It's fast and cheap! And foolproof! Everyone likes fast Mexican!”

“Sure, if you’re both drunk or high.”

“The noise!”

“It's impossible to eat anything there without sauce and cheese going _everywhere_.”

“The _noise…”_

“What's a little cheesy chin on a good date?”

“Gross.”

Tweek’s attention wanes halfway through passionate rebuttal. She could still feel the eyes on her, from all around - searching, hungry, _greedy_. It does nothing to ease the insistent itch under her skin -  
But mixed with the anxiety this time is a faint sense of almost smug pride - a sense of possessiveness. She knows what the rumours are, and she relishes the fact they’re _true_ and _better_.  
Under the table, hidden from prying eyes, she feels a hand nudge against hers. A pinkie finger slides against hers, hooking them together in a loose grip. Sweet, surprising and easy enough to reciprocate.    
She turns to rest her chin in her free hand, hiding a growing smile in her palm. She doesn't know if this is a one-off occurrence, a decision borne of an adrenaline rush or the desire to define the ogling masses - but at the moment, it doesn’t matter in the slightest.

\---

It’s definitely not a one-off occurrence.

Once comfortable and reassured that her affections are in safe hands, Craig is an absolute sap and quite frankly, a whore for hand holding. Her fingers - always warm -  are against hers at every opportunity, thumb tracing the grooves of her knuckles, the shapes of her bitten-down nails and tiny scars.  
Tweek adores it.  
There’s also the tendency of finding excuses to drape her clothes over Tweek. Her hat, her jacket - on occasion, her chapstick. She cites concerns for the blonde’s health, and Tweek believes her. She guesses it to be sixty percent concern for health, forty percent affectionate possessiveness.

When it comes to talking, however, things fall on the far opposite end of the scale.  
Craig is, rather infamously, a woman of fewer words. She considered, compartmentalised and concluded in a rather quiet fashion. She had consulted the blonde for her opinions in the past, but they were few and far between. Especially compared to the frequency at which the blonde’s emotions just seemed to spill everywhere around the other.  
A part of her had always assumed - dreaded - that Craig withheld things - her problems, her fears, her anger - purposefully in an attempt to spare Tweek additional worry and anxiety.  
(Because she thought her weak and incapable of handling it. Or helping, even.)  
That was part of the truth. A small part. The larger part was simple unwillingness to use her damn words. And just a flavouring of inability.

“Were the rumours about you and the football team guy true?”

Judging by the way her shoulders stiffen and her breath turns sharp, it had been a wise decision to wait until Craig had swallowed her drink.  
(Plain Earl Grey, plain green tea, hot cocoa - no extra cinnamon, no marshmallows, extra cream on special occasions. Tweek had never met anyone her age so indifference to caffeinated indulgences.)

“....I don't know what the rumours were.” comes the terse reply. Her thermos has been deposited safely on the ground with too-steady hands.

“People were - nghh - saying they saw you and a guy from the team getting...handsy behind the gardener’s shed.”

Her mouth tastes bitter once again by the time she finishes speaking, jealousy spiking in her veins. Part of her doesn't want to know the answer. Part of her is tired of the uncertainty. She cannot pretend she doesn’t care, and being faced with one awful possibility is better than being tormented by every awful possibility.  
Craig’s lips twist, eyes fixed on a spot in the distance. A hand drags across the back of her neck, ugly red splotches cropping up on her skin.

“It was stupid.” she says eventually. “...I just...then, right then, I had to make sure. And this was what I came up with.”

The red across her skin deepens. It’s out of embarrassment, Tweek realises with a start. Embarrassment and shame.

“Everyone was just….talking like I’ve...kept everyone waiting. Almost fucking gloating. Even beforehands...Clyde wouldn’t shut up, always asking what I was waiting for….even fucking Token too. And suddenly, after all these years, everyone else decides I’m gay and have always been and expects me not only to go along with it, but be super happy about this whole mess too?”

She pauses to clear her throat. Idly, Tweek remembers to take a breath.

“I wanted to know if I was still….into men, you know? If I could attract them still, if I tried, or if I was suddenly ‘too gay’ for that too.” She rolls her eyes, lips twisting. “Which is really stupid in hindsight.”

She pauses again, the string of her hat already tangled between her fingers.

 **“** He kissed me, which is what I guess the gossips saw. We made out, he tried to get grabby. It did absolutely nothing for me.”

With all the time she spent agonising over this, the bitterness in her stomach is a mere fraction of what she feared it would be. She didn't expect the embarrassment, the sad, near-self-deprecation from the other that it was accompanied by.

“Oh.” she manages.

“Like I said, it was stupid.” the taller girl mutters, rubbing at the bridge of her nose with an aggressive motion. “I acted like some fucking cliché with a mid-life crisis.”

She wasn't exactly wrong - but something in her tone, the defeated curve of her spine had the blonde crowding closer, frown firm.

“You….uh, you - ack!” she grits her teeth, swallowing a curse. Her fingers settled in the material of Craig's sleeve in a loose grip. “You do know it’s okay if you like men too, right?

To her side, Craig draws a sharp breath.

“Like, not that guy in particular, but just...It’s not like you have to choose just because you're...with me now.” she presses on. That little phrase, the acknowledgement of the _together_ still sends a spark through her, sharp and thrilled. “If you're not comfortable with the thought of just being gay, or just…” Her hands take over the explanation, beautifully jerky in their sharp flailing. It concludes with a shrug. ”You like what you like.”

Craig shifts next to her, next intake of air much more measured. “You sure? Isn't that...dunno. Cheating? Being stubborn?” Her voice is soft, quiet. “Like, I'm dating a girl but I insist I _still totally like boys, guys?”_

“Ack! _No_ .” the blonde retorts, lightly poking her elbow between skinny ribs. “It’s so much more complicated than that! I tried reading up on it and...there’s just - _nghh_ \- so much. Everyone’s experiences are a little different. And you’re a baby! You can’t already have this shit figured out completely _already!_ ” She moves to nudge Craig with her elbow again to really drive her point home. “If married men in their fifties can discover their gay tendencies, you should be fine.”

That got a snort and a twitch of the lips. She counted it as a victory.   

“...you sure you’d be okay with that, though?” the taller girl questions. She hesitates for a second. “I know you...worry about...lots of things. I don’t want you thinking that I’ll...I don’t know. Run off with a cute guy.”

_Hah._

“I’ll probably always think you’re going to run off with someone else.” Tweek shrugs, smile wry. It was the unfortunate truth. She didn't quite expect sheer horror to immediately spread across Craig's face, prompting a nervous flail of hands. “But that’s - ngh - not because of anything you do! It's just...one of those - nghh - re-occurring thoughts! The intrusive kind!”

She nods slowly, her expression settling into a subtler form of upset. Her hand is already sliding across the grass, searching for Tweek’s unoccupied one.

“That’s pretty shit.”

“It really is.” she admits. Their palms slide together, settling in a tight grip. “But it'd be - nghh - shittier if I didn't trust you.”

There’s a muffled noise as a grin splits across her girlfriend’s face, dark complexion doing little to hide the re-emerging flush. Wordlessly, Craig falls on her back, tugging Tweek with her by their joined hands.  
The sharp smell of grass is all-encompassing, blades finding their way between her clothes and to her skin. Above them, the wind rustles the leaves. Muffled police sirens ring in the distance, a dull reminder of the proximity to the city and of other people outside their little bubble.  
There’s a sigh next to her ear.

“This is...hard for me.” the taller girl murmurs. If the blonde cranes her neck, she can catch a glimpse of half-lidded eyes and tips of messy black bangs. “Talking about….this stuff. Feelings and fears. Doubts. I’d rather solve them myself and come to you when I’ve got it all sorted out. But I promise I am trying.”

 _I know you are_ , she wanted to say, _I know, I know, I know._ There was so much to reply to that quiet confession, long and short and inbetween, and all of the words were lodged firmly in her throat. So she wriggles instead, until her head is tucked under Craig’s chin, arm draped securely over her waist.  

A sudden thought flits in through her mind, lifting the lock on her tongue.

“So...was he a - ngh - good kisser…?”

A snort. “Dunno.” she replies. “Whole way through, I couldn't stop thinking about how much I’d rather be kissing you instead.” 

If she were a better person, she would have had the decency to take five seconds to pity this guy. As it stands, her arms are already winding themselves around her girlfriend's neck with enough ferocity to make her grunt, her grin impossibly wide.

\---

“If you fail the physics test on Friday, I'm going to have absolutely no sympathy for you, man.”

The line crackles with Craig's sigh, efforts to keep her tone persuasive half-hearted at best.

“But he's being really cute. It's super distracting.”

“Stop blaming Stripe! You're just lazy!” Tweek snaps, phone pressed snugly between her shoulder and ear. A startled glance from a nearby lady prompts her to lower her voice to an acceptable volume. Her eyes scan the baking ingredients heaped under the sale banner. “You keep using him as an excuse and I'll have to take him home with me until the weekend.”

“Honey, _no_!” is the immediate, horrified response.

“Go study then!”

“Alriiiight. Fuck.” She sighs again, sounding both resigned and amused. “Why do you have to be so hot when you're all forceful and bossy like that?”

Grateful that the other can’t witness her responding flush and stupid grin, Tweek clicks her tongue, somehow managing to keep her voice steady.

" _Bye_ , Craig.”

“Later, honey.”

She's halfway through tucking her phone away when she hears a giggle behind her - the only warning she gets before smaller hands are grabbing onto her arm. The grip is accompanied by a shock of strawberry blonde curls and a familiar grin.

“Hi Tweek!”

She manages to keep her shriek and jump at a somewhat socially acceptable level. Once somewhat composed, she reaches out to clumsily pet the younger Tucker’s head.

“...Hey Trish.”

“Hello! What are you up to?”

“Just on a quick bakery run. We ran out of flour and vanilla.”

His eyes widen, expression turning hopeful. “Are you making cupcakes?”  
The eagerness in his tone is contagious, and Tweek can already feel herself mirroring his smile. Trish’s compliments about her baking - alongside his easy-going acceptable - were precious things that she was pathetically grateful for every time. “No - I’m trying something new out. I saw a recipe for almond crescent cookies that looked really good.”  
Interest flickers across his expression, followed by a small frown. “....and cupcakes too?”  
A laugh escapes her, already calculating the additional flour she’d need to buy. “Maybe.” She glances up at approaching footsteps - and finds herself staring at Thomas Tucker for the first time since he almost shut the door in her face.    
_Oh Jesus Christ.  
_ She can feel the tremor in her spine, working its way down to her hands and up to her face. She makes a futile attempt to school her features. Maybe he will just nod and pass her by.

“Trish, I think that cake your mom ordered should be ready. Can you run along to the bakery section and check for me, please?”

_Oh for fuck’s sake._

“Okay.” he replies, releasing his grip on the blonde. He emphatically mouths ‘cupcakes’ at her before strolling off - leaving Tweek alone with his father.

 _Oh Jesus Christ on a unicycle_ , Tweek was _not fucking prepared for this_.  

“Hello, Mr Tucker.” she manages, gripping the shopping basket for dear life.

“Hi, Tweek.” Thomas’ smile is a little forced, but gentle. His demeanour is very different to last time - his eyes look tired, but his mouth is set into a determined line.

A tense moment passes in silence before he sighs.

“I wanted to apologise for the way I spoke to you when you last came to visit.”

_Huh?_

She blinks, expression no doubt perfectly intelligent. Thomas shifts, clearly uncomfortable.

“That day...I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen Craig that upset. And when she finally told us why...it was...a shock.”

 _That’s fair_ , she might have wanted to say. He hadn’t been the only one. Too bad her vocal chords were only capable of making a faint noise in response. Thankfully, he took that as a cue to continue.

“I grew up being told that being gay was...a choice, and one that lead you to a lifetime of misery. That if you raised your children with good morals, this was something you could avoid. I never...thought about it. It’s not that it’s my worst nightmare but - but I didn’t want it to be happening to our family. I didn’t want it to be my daughter.” He breaks eye contact for a brief moment, lips pulling into a wry smile.

“It was a very selfish moment. And I realise that. It hasn’t been….easy. I know it ain’t the right way to think but old habits die hard.” He then shakes his head, movement firm as he takes a step forward.

“But that’s no excuse. I love my daughter, and I want her to be happy. And...after you left...it was clear how much you were both hurting.” His expression crumples for a moment, and Tweek is struck with the urge to reach out and reassure him in some way. “I wanted to say I am sorry - and that you’re always welcome in our home. I mean that.”

Tweek swallows, her heartbeat a dull roar in her ears. Slowly, methodically, she sets the shopping basket down on the floor, leaving her hand free to extend towards Craig’s father. As he takes it in his, grip firm, she hopes that he can see - that he can feel just a fraction of her gratitude, her relief and the sheer mass of emotions that buzzes under her skin.       

“Thank you, sir.” she whispers. 

She can’t quite recall how she got out of the shop or back home. The straps of her bag dig into her shoulder, carrying a lot more flour than originally planned.  

She’s got a lot to bake.

\---

Craig’s expression when she opens the door hours later is priceless.

“You do know my birthday is still months away, right?” she asks, eyebrows raised comically high. She lets the blonde struggle with her ridiculous amount of tupperware containers for a few minutes before reaching to ease two out of her arms.

“Screw you.” Tweek huffs, out of breath and unimpressed. She marches past the other, towards the kitchen, all-too-aware of her embarrassed flush.

Soft footsteps catch up with her just as she sets the boxes down on the table, warmth draping along the curve of her back.

“You okay?” Craig murmurs against her hair, fingers giving her upper arm a squeeze. Goosebumps prickle across her skin underneath the fabric. Without thinking, she leans back into the touch. “Stress baking again?”

“Nah. They’re actually for Trish.” she confesses. “And your Dad.”

There’s a long, pregnant pause before Craig’s arms are winding around her waist, a scoff muffled into messy blonde hair.

“I’m pretty sure I’m missing something but don’t encourage them.” she grumbles, chin pressing against her scalp uncomfortably. “You’re not dating my family.”

Her sullen tone and tight grip, reminiscent of a slighted child, make Tweek smirk. She reaches back to pat Craig’s cheek.  

“I’m only here for Stripe. You know that.”

Craig’s responding snort is ugly and loud. She tilts her head, breath loud in Tweek’s ear as she nuzzles into the shorter girl.

“That’s fair. He’s beautiful.”

\---

She still wakes up in the middle of the night tangled in sheets soaked in sweat, with her pulse pounding in her throat and a dull, sweet ache between her legs. Fragments of her dreams cling to the back of her eyelids, leaving her mouth dry and skin all-too warm.      
God fucking damn it.  
It never fucking ends.  

\---

Tweek has no illusions about the way she looks.  
In her rare moments of attentiveness, her mother calls her delicate – a classic beauty, with her long blonde hair, blue-green eyes and pianist fingers. (Although it’s not the kind of compliment she secretly, shamefully craves from her, it is a compliment nonetheless, and she takes it.)  
She knows she’s not ugly, per se.  
But there was no point in spending money on expensive shampoo or on haircuts when she’d end up tearing at the strands inevitably during her next fit of panic. Time potentially allocated to elaborate skincare routines were occupied with disinfecting bite wounds and painstakingly applying band-aids over fresh injuries. There was no point in investing in any manicures for her poor, abused nails, always bitten to stumps. She could deny herself the coffee shop pastries during her break times – but that would inevitably result in her eating nothing at all. Make up was hard enough on good days, applied with steady hand and a nervous breath – on bad days, it wasn’t an attempt worth making.  
So yes. She could be pretty. If she took better care of her hair, if she fixed the slip-ups in her clothes, if she worked out, got rid of all her unhealthy coping mechanisms and all the physical evidence of her anxiety. Simple.  
It was a twisted sort of blessing, in a way. Being so preoccupied with all her rather capricious mind left her generally feeling fairly impassive about her body.

Of course, things change when one finds themselves with a very – very – attractive girlfriend.

\---

The fact Craig is hot is common knowledge.

Even before the whole fiasco, Tweek remembers taking note of the taller girl - cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, mile long legs, distractingly _lovely_ biceps...  
(So she liked a girl that looked like she could break her spine effortlessly. Sue her.)  
It’s a monumentally unfair fact that Craig only become more attractive in her eyes the more she got to know her - witnessing her stubborn loyalty, her quiet determination, her unexpected soft spots.  
Not to mention that those legs were even more attractive when draped over Tweek’s lap, clad in shamelessly comfortable leggings.  
Being close friends with the other girl for this long came with the curse - the burden - the blessing - of dozens of little details that end up carrying much more significance than they should.  
The brand of her preferred moisturiser cream, lathered reluctantly on constantly-dry elbows and knees. The sharp artificial apple scent of her shampoo, and the way longer locks of her hair curled when damp, fresh out of the shower. The shade of blue polish permanently occupying her toes. The crooked, jagged edges of her lower incisors, too wild for braces to fix.  
Her bra size. The contrast of dark navy cotton (and on one occasion, black lace) against tanned skin. The curve of her breasts against the loose material of her pyjamas as she leans over Tweek to grab her phone.  
She never made it a habit to stare, to ogle, to do anything to make the other uncomfortable or suspicious. And Craig wasn’t the sole subject of idle observation, of the knowledge accumulated post-Public-Fight-Incident. She knew which of her friends chose waxing over shaving, and how often. She knew who preferred tampons to pads. Became familiar with usually-concealed scars, with routines and odd preferences.

Only the details of Craig left her mouth dry and heart pounding.

It's Thursday and they're lounging in Tweek’s room. Their last class had been cut short due to unplanned demonic possession/arson, and they have a few hours to kill before Craig has to go home for dinner.  
Craig, who declared to have had quite enough of her jeans and proceeded to start changing into more comfortable clothes as soon as the door clicks shut behind them.  
(There was a whole corner of Tweek’s closet dedicated to housing Craig’s sweaters, nightclothes and orphan socks, abandoned and moved in during various sleepovers. She had only amassed more since they started dating.)

Perched on the edge of her bed, Tweek shifts, oddly feeling like an awkward guest in her own room. She swipes at her screen, words and posts blurring into incoherence at the slow sound of a zipper.    
Craig changing in the same room as her is hardly a new development. But...but now, it’s _different._  
Now she knows she's allowed to stare. That her staring is _welcomed_.  
Tweek is only human.  
A weak human.  
There’s a rustle of fabric, and a muffled thump as a sweater and a shirt hit the ground unceremoniously.

(Tweek is going to die. She is going to perish, and then she will end up in Lesbian Purgatory where you get to stare at your girlfriend’s naked back for eternity, watching her without ever being able to touch her.)

“Babe, can you pass me my bag?”

She jumps gracelessly at the request, phone clattering to the ground. She manages to drag the bag within Craig’s reach without tripping over her feet, and resolutely spends the next few minutes with her gaze glued to the screen of her phone.  
(There's a tiny mole just below her left shoulder blade and she wants nothing more than to trace it with her tongue.)  
The bed dips behind her, a hand sliding on her shoulder. She glances back, hoping her cheeks aren’t too obvious in telegraphing her thoughts as she glances over her girlfriend. The shirt and jeans are replaced with tight yoga pants and an oversized sweater, neckline dipping low enough to leave one shoulder and a thin bra strap exposed. Her lips glisten with dark purple gloss, hair carelessly messy from the haphazard changing.  
_Hang on_.  
Craig is wearing lipstick.  
She has no reason to wear lipstick in Tweek’s bedroom at five in the afternoon when they made no plans to go out.  
No reason whatsoever.  
A scene flashes through her mind - a whispered conversation from last week, a hurried confession made under the warm security of a lazy afternoon, when Tweek admitted just how terribly attractive she finds her girlfriend in dark coloured lipstick.  
She hears a chuckle, and it prompts her to drag her accusing gaze up from smirking, shiny lips to smirking eyes. Her hands move to give the taller girl a little shove, voice coming out accusatory.  

“....are you doing this on purpose?!”

Craig shrugs. Despite her composed expression, her eyes are gleaming with nervous energy.

“Maybe.” she says, syllables carefully extended before she cocks her head to the side. “Is it working?”

And then her hands are in her hair, her lips pressing against hers, and Tweek just melts.  
The kisses are fiercer than the ones they usually share, insistent and eager to steal her breath away. There’s a playful nip against her lower lip, the faux-cherry taste sharp and sweet when her mouth parts to deepen the kiss. A rush of warmth spikes all the way down her spine, momentarily overwhelming and all she wants is _more_.  
By the time she pulls back for a breath, Tweek’s hands are clutching at the fabric of her sweater, pupils blown wide and thoughts a hot mess.     

“You are so pretty, it pisses me off.” Craig breathes against her neck, nails scraping against her scalp. With a tilt of her head, she kisses her way down to her shoulder, leaving faint, shiny marks on too-warm skin. “You have no idea what your smile does to me. It’s so fucking cute and makes me feel like my insides are melting through my skin.”

That’s really gross and not at all sexy and Tweek’s heart aches with how much she loves this girl.  
Craig’s hands slide down from her shoulders, fingers pausing at the very top button.

“I hate all your shirts.” Her voice is quieter, a little more breathless. Tweek has to steal a glance - at her now-swollen lips, her flushed cheeks. The taller girl swallows, tracing an aimless pattern over Tweek’s collarbone, touch leaves blazing heat in its wake. “I hate how jealous and weird I get over the thought of someone else seeing under it.”

Vaguely, she can recall the scowls. The aggressive buttoning campaign. The somewhat passive compliments. They’re echoing in her ear now, writhing under her skin, twisting together with this rare admission of possessiveness, of insecurity. It prompts the blonde’s grip to tighten, nails dragging down her girlfriend’s back and dipping under her sweater, palms pressing firmly over the bumps of her spine. The responding gasp is deliciously gratifying.  
Craig presses her nose into the crook of her neck, tongue flicking out to drag along the pulsing line of her jugular. Her fingers twist at her button.  
(If Tweek’s voice wasn’t such a lost cause, she would tell her not to be so shy with her teeth.)  

“Can I - “

“ _Yes_ , yes - ” the blonde grits out, nodding quickly in succession. She snags a handful of dark hair, giving it a tug.

Nimble fingers tug her buttons open, pushing the dark green fabric off Tweek’s shoulders and out of the way. She doesn’t bother to try unclasping her bra, hands sliding over the curve of her breasts before slipping under the elastic, eager for more skin. Thumbs brush against already-hard nipples, mouth moving to swallow Tweek’s sharp little moan  -  
And then there’s footsteps up the stairs, heavy and getting closer with each second.  
With an utter lack of grace, Craig wretches back, rolling away and straight off the bed, hitting the floor with a pained grunt. The blonde manages to grab her duvet, wrapping it around herself just before the door swings open to reveal her father.

“Tweek, where did you put the Blend Notebook?” Richard Tweek asks, completely failing to read the mood of the room.

“Dad! Knock!” she hisses, shoulders hunched. Anger, humiliation and latent desire twist in her throat, undecided in which should reign. “And it’s on top of the fridge, where it always is!”

“Right, of course.” her father nods, clapping his hands together. He tilts his head. “Tweek, we said to leave your door open, remember?”

“Craig was changing!” she responds hotly. She shifts, reaching up to drag a hand through her hair, no doubt making it messier.

“Ah, I see.” Richard says, nodding sagely. His smile is still unflinchingly angelic. “Well, don’t stay up too late, your mother needs your help in restocking tomorrow before school!”

And with that, he leaves.  
Once his whistling has faded completely, Tweek peers over the side of the bed, unable to hold back a laugh at the sight - Craig staring up at the ceiling with a stony expression, a spread-eagled picture of a woman who is completely and utterly done.

“Are - are you - ngh - okay?” she whispers.

“I don't know why I'm surprised in the slightest.” comes the dry reply, followed by a sigh deep enough to make mountains tremble.

Slowly, Tweek descends from the bed to join her despondent girlfriend on the carpet, duvet still wrapped around her shoulders.

“This is actually exactly like how my first attempt to watch porn went.” she confesses, wry smile only widening as Craig’s expression morphs into one of horror. “He startled me so bad that I yanked my headphones out on accident.”

“ _No._ ”

“Mhmm.”

Her groan palpably painful, Craig shifts to curl against the blonde’s side. She feels fingers wriggle under the blankets in search of her own before she feels the lips brush against her cheek, prompting the blonde to turn her head to meet them. The kiss is a gentler counterpart to the frenzied ones from just minutes ago - light, long, lingering. Regardless, it makes her toes curl, desire lapping lazily at the periphery of her senses.    
There’s a promise hidden in there, she senses. If not tonight, soon enough.

“I feel like this is one of those milestone things.” Craig remarks once her tongue is unoccupied. “Getting interrupted and almost caught. I feel like we deserve a trophy to commemorate.”

Despite the obvious sarcasm, Tweek’s stomach jolts at her words. She swallows.

“....nghh...Do you - argh! Want one?”

“...huh?”

“A...trophy...commemoration of...this...or whatever.”

Craig blinks at her, mouth falling into a silent ‘oh’ of understanding as she realises just where Tweek’s gaze is. With a deliberate breath, she tugs Tweek closer, tipping her head back to expose the curve of her throat.  

The bruise is deep and magnificently purple the next morning. Even with the high collar of her jacket, it's impossible to miss.  
Craig’s irritating smugness is palpable throughout the entire day.

\---

 **(16:35) Tweek:** i’m gonna have to do it

 **(16:40) Jimmy:**??

 **(16:40) Tweek:** i’m going to have to kill my gf

 **(16:40) Tweek:** it’s been so good but it must be done for the greater good

 **(16:41) Tweek:** when the authorities come lookin for me tell them that it was Necessary  

 **(16:42) Jimmy:** is it richard marx again

 **(16:42) Tweek:** IT HAS BEEN MONTHS JIMMY

 **(16:43) Tweek:** THE TECHNOLOGY THAT MADE SPOTIFY WASNT CREATED SO THAT WE WOULD HAVE TO LISTEN TO THE SAME PLAYLIST OF NINE FUCKING SONGS FROM THE 80S

 **(16:44) Jimmy:** (⊙﹏⊙✿)

 **(16:44) Jimmy:** it’s kind of amazing that she reached Peak Dad Status (™) so young

 **(16:45) Jimmy:** u gotta admit Gloria is still a banger though

 **(16:42) Tweek:** LKJSKJDSFNKJSDNKJDSBBDGYDSYGD

 **(16:45) Jimmy:** are u sure ur ready to be a single mother tho

 **(16:45) Jimmy:** pls consider ur son

 **(16:46) Tweek:** GAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH.

\---

“I thought you were gonna wear the skirt we got together today.” Clyde remarks with a pout, eyeing Tweek’s jeans with disappointment.

Behind her, Craig muffles a noise into her fist, barely bothering to hide her sudden self-satisfied smirk.  
She idly wonders if her tongue is still sore.

“I - nghh - spilled coffee on it this morning.” she replies in the end, smile apologetic. Her fingers settle idly on her hips, just above the spot where Craig's nails left their enthusiastic mark just hours ago. There’s a small, dull lick of pain with every movement as the fabric brushes against the hickeys adorning her thighs with every step.

Clyde cringes, unaware of the badly-concealed smugness on display behind her. “Ughhh, that’s so annoying. Did you soak it in?”

_Soaking is one word for it..._

“Y-yeah. Of course.”

“Good. God, I hate spilling stuff over my clothes! Especially when it soaks right through and just drips down my leg.”

There’s a pause before Craig doubles over with a sudden coughing fit, both hands pressed over her face. Tweek raises her eyes to the ceiling, trying and failing to keep her own expression in check.  
This is going to be a long day.

\---

She wasn’t sure how she ended up like this.  
There had been an intention to study, distractingly soft pillows, and an even more distracting strip of skin where her girlfriend’s sweater had ridden up, revealing just a hint of striped underwear.  
Somehow, along the way, she had ended up on top of Craig, straddling her hips and pinning the taller girl’s hands above her head.    
Her first instinct was to apologise profusely - to curl back, to drop off the bed and maybe even the face of the Earth for being pushy and presumptuous and fucking hell, can she not be so obviously horny, it was really unsightly -  
But then she takes note of the jumpy rhythm of Craig’s pulse against her thumb - the sudden sharp intakes of breath underneath her. The flush spread across her girlfriend's face, coupled with her dark, wide-blown pupils makes Tweek shiver, desire curling deep in her abdomen.

God, she feels powerful. 

She has a sudden urge to grab at Craig’s neck. To press her thumb against her larynx, make her head spin just a little - and then soothe the ensuing mark with kisses.  
Her grip on Craig’s wrists tightens. With her free hand, she slowly slides a finger down along her collarbone, applying just the slightest hint of pressure above half-healed love bites peppering her skin.  

“I am going to wreck you.” The words come out quiet, tone too affectionate to be really threatening.

“Yes - “ is the swift response, Craig’s voice husky. Her spine arching off the mattress in an attempt to press their bodies closer together. Tweek presses her palm flat against her chest, thrilled as she feels the other still immediately. 

“And you're going to ask me for it.”

\---

“So, Tweek.”

From the devious tone of her voice, and the way the words make Craig stiffen, she can already guess what kind of question Laura Tucker’s is about to ask her.

“We were talking the other night,” she continues, expression perfectly innocent. “And we realised that even though we've known you for so long, we still don't know exactly you two became friends in the first place.”

“Mom.” her daughter groans, looking seconds away from slumping face-first into her dinner plate. “I _told you already._ ”

“You told me half of the story.” Laura replies, unfazed. “And I’d like to hear Tweek’s version of it too.”

There’s a shared glare between mother and daughter - short but intense - before they both turn their gazes to the blonde in question, frozen mid-bite. 

 _Ohhhhhhhh man._     
She looks at Craig - takes in her expression that flits from pointed to pleading, silently promising her the world if she omits the truth - and then looks at the rest of her family - Laura’s mirthful smile, Trish’s eager grin and Thomas’ politely concealed interest -    
And she knows what she has to do. 

“Well.” she begins, carefully setting her knife down on the table. “It was pretty funny, actually.”  
She hears Craig’s muffled, horrified gasp to her right, and the smile she had been struggling to contain finally breaks free.  
“She came up to me after school out of the blue and said - ‘I hear you've been talking shit about my guinea pig’.”

\---

 

A/N: Oh man, She Is Finally Complete.

  
I really love these characters and their dynamic and growth. This started out as a self indulgent little drabble, and somewhere along the way it became a love letter to these characters and to how I came to terms with my own feelings on loving ladies years ago. 

(I honestly didn't think South park would be the thing to break my years' worth of dry spell in regards to writing, yet here we are and I'm not even mad)

Special shoutout to all the incredible artists in this fandom, especially to the wonderful  [kisu-no-hi](http://kisu-no-hi.tumblr.com/tagged/south-park), whose art inspired me to finally watch the show properly (and consequently play both games too). 

For anyone interested in visuals, I had [aegisdea](http://aegisdea.tumblr.com/post/171816126701/genderbent-creek)'s  and [temariart](http://temariart.tumblr.com/)'s lady versions in mind when writing.  

Title is from ['Jenny' by Studio Killers](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hyj4JFSErrw), the iconic lesbian tune. 

I really hope you guys enjoy this as much as I did writing it - any comments would be very much appreciated <3 


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